Through The Looking Glass
by Mendeia
Summary: Six oneshots of various Alternate Universe incarnations of Leverage. If you ever wanted to see Eliot as a train robber in the Wild West, or Nate as a medieval prince, or Sophie as a spirit medium, these are the tales for you. No two stories will have the same setting or the same combination of characters. Complete(for now).
1. The Phoenix Sword

This will be a set of oneshot AU stories, each taking a different subset of the Leverage crew and plopping them somewhere new. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did writing them!

I will be honest – if I were ever going to do a follow-up to any of these, or expand any one into a longer story, it would probably be this 'verse.

Enjoy!

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#1: The Phoenix Sword

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There was no warning given at all – one moment, the path ahead lay clear and the next it was filled with the shape of a man.

Prince Nathan drew his mount to a halt at once. "What is the meaning of this?"

The man on the path regarded the prince with eyes that were cooler than an autumn sky. His hair was long and unbound, brushing wide and well-muscled shoulders. Though the prince would have stood above him, the man carried himself as if he rode at the head of an army.

Prince Nathan's sharp eyes saw no insignia nor livery upon the man, nothing to identify his lord, but there could be no denying that this was a warrior in the service of someone of the highest rank. No other would dare stare so at a prince of the realm.

"I bring you a warning," the man said, his voice low and gruff. "There will be an assassination attempt against you, possibly before nightfall today. Be on your guard, or prepare to lose your life."

The prince tipped his head, curious. "How do you come by this knowledge?"

The man made a smile that was unkind and all too knowing. "I was paid to kill you myself."

"And yet still I live."

"Yes."

"Why?" The prince threw back his shoulders, snapping the scarlet cape he wore so that it fanned out about him in an appropriately dramatic fashion. The rest of his attire was black, much of it velvet and silk, save for the golden band upon his brow and its matching medallion upon his chest which showed his rank as the fourth prince through both symbol and jewel – the emerald of his station crowned a proud hawk with wings spread wide. Though his face could be round and open, he squared it now, the softness lost in stern command.

But the man on the path, wearing a warrior's browns but no armor, and carrying no weapons, did not flinch nor tremble at the tiny show of power.

"A man's choices should be his own. If you choose to ignore my warning, you may die. But I choose not to be the hand that spills your blood."

"And may I inquire as to who offers gold for my blood?" Prince Nathan asked.

The man shook his head. "I have betrayed him once by sparing you, twice by warning you. I shall not betray him again to name him to you. My honor is forfeit, but I do have some pride."

The prince smiled. "So I see. Then I thank you for your pride, good sir, and I daresay that it is the greater honor to show mercy."

The man dipped his head, just once, with the air of one who bows to no one, heedless of royal blood. He turned to walk back into the forest.

Prince Nathan held out a hand. "Give me your name, sir, that I may know whom to thank properly."

He did not turn around to speak. "I am Spencer."

And he strode off into the trees.

The prince watched him go, deeply interested in one who could be so contradictory and so silent at once. As he urged his mount back to an easy trot, the prince let his mind whirl with the many possibilities.

Of course, the most likely agent behind any attempt against himself was his half-brother, Prince James of Stirling. James and Nathan competed in all things and loathed one another through false smiles and clever intrigues. Prince James, though recognized for his blood, was a son by the king's third wife, and therefore beneath Prince Nathan who was the only son of the king's second wife. Where Nathan was the fourth prince of the realm, James was not content to be fifth. It would be very like his scheming, troublesome brother to try to deprive Nathan of life and title so that James could become Prince of Ford.

Prince Nathan pondered the traitorous plot in such depth that by the late afternoon, he had forgotten the specific warning by the one called Spencer.

Until a band of rogues burst from the trees and surrounded him.

Prince Nathan was a superb horseman, and was able to keep from being thrown to the ground, but only just – the horse stamped and reared and kicked in a panic.

"Get him!" cried one of the brigands, wielding a rough axe.

Prince Nathan drew the blade hanging at his hip, but he could not threaten more than one of his opponents at once, and they moved around him like circling wolves. Many carried axes and thick knives, but two levied spears long enough to pierce the horse's heart without ever drawing close enough for Nathan to harm.

The prince wheeled in place, turning a tight circle that he might keep his eyes upon them all.

The men let out a war-cry and charged.

Prince Nathan braced himself for battle.

And a tempest burst from the forest to one side.

The man called Spencer charged into the crowd, dispatching them with a single blow of the fist and leaving each to fall while he rounded upon the next. The rogues turned away from Prince Nathan to meet this new threat and attacked, levying blade and axe, but it seemed none could reach the man. In moments, every man lay upon the ground, groaning, injured, and defeated.

"I warned you," Spencer said, raising his eyes to the prince once more.

"Indeed you did," Prince Nathan said. "And that is twice you have my thanks."

"Go back to your castle. Do not ride out unguarded again. I was almost too slow to reach you."

"You could return with me," the prince said. "A man of your courage and skill would be very valuable to me. And then you would not need to find me to save my life a third time."

Spencer shook his head. "I won't save it again. If you are foolish enough to offer it to such dullards, I see no reason to help you further."

"A reward, then." The prince reached to a pouch at his belt and drew forth a handful of coins. "For you have rendered a noble service unto me, and it is my honor to repay it."

"Keep your payment, and your honor." Spencer turned away. "If you must reward me, then keep yourself alive, Prince Nathan. That would be reward enough."

And before the prince could speak again, Spencer returned to the forest.

Prince Nathan waited to see if he could follow his mysterious rescuer, but as his attackers began to stir, he thought better of it and instead turned back along his path to return to his castle. He sent the captain of his guard with several soldiers to retrieve those left lying in the forest for interrogation, but by the time they arrived at the ill-fated ambush, all had vanished. Only many boot-prints in the dirt showed that there had ever been a group of brigands at all.

Nathan dispatched a trusted agent to the king's summer palace at Pendragon to investigate the attack, and sent a carefully-worded missive to Prince James as well.

Prince James sent a response within a fortnight, along with a cart filled with armor and shields:

" _While I long to see you displaced, brother-mine, if our fraternal blood is to be spilled, I should rather see it upon my own hands, not those of commoner dogs."_

"Well," Nathan said to himself, shaking his head at his brother's eccentricities, "at least I know who did _not_ send death to me."

Prince Nathan continued his daily rides through the countryside, though he took Spencer's words to heart and allowed himself to be accompanied by his own loyal soldiers. But many weeks passed and no more attempts were made upon him, either out in the fields and forests of Ford or within the castle itself.

However, there _were_ strange occurrences in Ford – simply none in the presence of the prince himself.

The first report that reached Nathan was of an old woman who had been accused of witchcraft; she was dragged from her home and would have been killed but for the intervention of a stranger. Without doing more harm than a blow to the head, he rescued her from her would-be murderers and stood guard over her until some of the castle soldiers could be sent to remind the people that crimes of witchcraft were fantasies and anyone causing harm in the pursuit of a 'witch' would be punished.

Prince Nathan released a royal decree praising the stranger for his chivalry and courage, and he invited the woman to come work in the castle as a seamstress, which she gratefully accepted – sewing was far easier on her bones than the endless rough of toiling in the soil.

Some days later, another report came of a drunken brawl in a tavern broken up by a man no one knew, sparing the tavern-owners much damage. The prince rode to visit the tavern himself, and was surprised at the number of men who had engaged in such a rout – and yet were all stopped by the intervention of one.

Prince Nathan ordered his soldiers to keep a better eye on taverns, and to prevent such brawls from getting so out of hand when possible, and offered to reward anyone who could identify the man who had spared so many cracked heads and unbroken mugs. But none could.

The third report, however, required far more direct involvement by Prince Nathan.

A small town within a single day's ride from the castle of Ford sent a request for some soldiers to arrest a man and bring him before the prince for judgement. When he arrived in the castle, he told a story Prince Nathan felt certain must be entirely false.

For any man so badly bruised and with many bones broken by a stranger was probably no innocent.

So Prince Nathan engaged the help of one of his most trusted men and ventured out of the castle in disguise. It was a regular pastime for him, to wear the clothing of an average peasant, to let his hair hang free of the circlet that usually confined it, and to adopt the manner of a man merely passing through. The common people of Ford might have heard of a shrewd and honorable man called Nate, who claimed to have been named for the great Prince Nathan, but rare was the man who realized they were one and the same. It was not that the peasants were of low wittedness; rather, Prince Nathan was exceptionally clever, and as Nate he knew how to hide the truth of himself from a person looking directly at his face.

And so Nate ventured into the town to speak to those who knew the man sent to the castle for punishment. What he learned from neighbors filled him with fury.

" _Aye, he's a rotten drunk. Thought my Lily was his own wife and blackened her eye a'fore I could stop him_."

" _I've seen him strike his sons with horseshoes, and he's broken their bones right enough, too_."

" _There's not a woman or child who will dare go near him, or as like as not they'll leave his presence bloodied_."

Nate tapped at the thin, wooden door, and was met by the face of a woman who had been beaten savagely.

"Please," he said, gentling his tone as he never would wearing the gold of the realm, "I only wish to know what happened and if you and your little ones are well. I've a friend in the guard, and if I tell him what I know, he will speak to the prince before the judgement is passed."

The woman let him into her tiny cottage and offered him a small drink, which he refused as politely as he could without betraying his true heritage. Three children, two boys bruised and angry, and a girl who never came out from behind her mother's skirts, added their bits to the tale of their father the drunkard who harmed whatever he touched, and whose only contrition was blame and more anger when sober.

"And what happened last night?" Nate asked.

"A man burst in," the woman said. "A man with lightning in his eyes and justice singing in his blood. He pulled Harold off me, drove him outside, and told me he'd see that man hang before he would ever lay another hand upon us. I do not know what he did with Harold, but I know I slept well and without fear for the first time since we spoke our marriage vows."

"Lightning in his eyes and justice singing in his blood," Nate repeated. "I should like to meet a man like that."

But he was certain he already had.

When Prince Nathan levied his punishment on the abusive man, he did so to set an example for the people of Ford – none may harm even the smallest, weakest, least of those in the prince's realm without paying for such violence with blood. There would be no women afraid, no children broken, not in Ford, not while Prince Nathan breathed.

He hung Harold's head upon the gatehouse wall to prove it.

As for Harold's widow and her children, he sent them to a distant cousin who had need of a woman to keep house for him, and who was kind and gentle and courtly to all. Prince Nathan knew it would only be a matter of moons before his cousin would petition to wed the woman, regardless of her class of birth, and adopt her children as his own. He looked forward to giving his full blessing.

The stories of the avenging stranger continued to circulate – a man whom some called an angel of mercy wandered the lands of Ford protecting those who could not protect themselves and lending a strong arm and a steady heart when danger or hardship were felt. He never gave a name, never stayed once he had served, and never allowed any to repay him in any way.

And Prince Nathan waited.

On the day of the autumn equinox, Prince Nathan invited all his people to gather at his castle, to feast in honor of a year of plenty. He made the invitation well known, and ensured that it was received by those who were poor as well as those of means who sought to curry influence with himself.

And when the feasting was done, and the revels begun, he put Prince Nathan away in his chambers and emerged into the festival atmosphere as only Nate.

As Nate, he moved through the crowd invisibly, looking for familiar storm eyes and square shoulders, for the arm and form of a man who had brought justice to Ford where Prince Nathan could not. He walked amidst the peasants, the soldiers, traveling entertainers, musicians, jugglers, storytellers, and children shrieking in glee as they raced about freely. He walked the tents and wooden benches used as seats and stages outside his castle walls, all the way through the castle town and to the fields where people found quiet and privacy under the moonlit sky for some time away from prying eyes.

Nate heard a single step behind him.

"It's dangerous to walk alone."

He turned to see, at last, the man he had sought for most of the golden summer.

"Is it, now?" Nate asked, affixing a jaunty smile.

"Yes. Particularly for you."

"I am no one. So-and-so's cousin Nate, wanderer of Ford."

"And you are also Prince Nathan." In the dark, Spencer's eyes glittered.

Nate was not surprised that his secret could be so easily guessed by this man above all others – he was pleased. He made a broad, courtly bow, as foolish as the ones given by clowns and bards.

"And it's a great honor of mine to meet you, good sir, who is quickly becoming the Hero of Ford with his selfless acts of courage and kindness."

But Spencer looked away. "I came only to say that I am leaving. You will have to rule your people better from now on, if you wish them to live with justice."

The joviality fell from Nate quickly. He faced Spencer, all the might and focus of his mind in his eyes.

"Why are you leaving?"

"It's as you just said. I'm becoming known here."

"Do you not wish to be known?"

"It isn't safe to know someone like me." And Spencer's mouth twisted up in what should have been a smile but looked nothing like one at all.

Nate regarded the man. "I cannot change what you have decided, of course, but would you do me the favor of walking with me tonight that I might know more of what you have seen in my lands?"

It was a request Nate knew, as he knew his maths and his history, that Spencer would not deny. A man who had bloodied his fists in defense of the people would not deny this chance to speak for them to their prince. And so he accepted the short nod of agreement and began to lead the way from where others would gather, eventually guiding them both to a small stand of trees not far from the castle's western gate.

Nate asked as many questions as he dared about the people Spencer had met and the things he had seen, and while he marked well all the answers and details Spencer provided, he more closely watched the man himself. He could see a brittleness in Spencer's eyes, like the last ice on a pond, that was the final strength of a man whose soul has been broken.

But Nate also saw that soul could still burn with a fire that not only banished evil, but warmed and sheltered all that was good.

And he was not going to let Spencer leave so easily.

"Tell me then," Nate said at last, "why you came to Ford at all?"

"I told you when first we met," Spencer said. "I was sent to kill you."

"But instead you have saved my life and the lives of my people. You are no common fighter, no wandering knave. And yet, I sense you have been such, and far worse."

"Yes," and Spencer barely breathed the word. "I have been worse."

"But now you battle for the light, and not the darkness I sense in your spirit."

Spencer met his eyes evenly, if angrily. "The man I have become is no man at all, but a monster. If I must be a monster, then I will be a monster who hunts its own kind. If I were to live as a monster who feasts upon the innocent for even one more day, I would spill my own blood to the last drop. I shall never again harm that which does not deserve it."

"But, you see, that makes you not a monster at all – you are a lion. A lion's teeth may rend a man's flesh, but he only turns them to the protection of his own pride. And my pride is very much in need of protection, as you well know."

"I am no lion."

"But I say you are." Nate leaned forward. "I have been seeking a lion since I attained my majority. I can do much with the powers of the crown, and more without it. But I cannot do what you have done. I cannot guard my people from the ills that lurk in their own shadows. I can judge and guide and lead, but I cannot be their shield."

"Is that what you think I am?" Spencer asked. "I, whose hands will never be clean of blood? For I tell you, prince that you are, that I have killed more people than you dare comprehend, and some of them women, children, the infirm, and the old. Some of them innocent. Some very guilty. I have killed them all and I must carry their ghosts in my heart every moment of every day for as long as I draw breath."

"No." Nate shook his head. "No, you need not. For the man before me now is not one who has done these things. The instant you spared my life, the man you were perished. From that moment on, you have been a phoenix, risen and blazing and free of the ashes. You may carry them with you, but you are not that man, not now."

Spencer said nothing.

Nate reached out his hands and, daring violence, closed them upon Spencer's shoulders.

"Come. Join me. Be my help and my lion. Stand between my people and all evils, great and small. Be my protector and my ally in this, that we may bring justice and honor to every man, woman, and child in Ford."

And when Spencer flinched, Nate understood all at once the silence and hesitation that had overtaken this dauntless warrior.

The one fear even his boundless courage could not withstand.

"I shall make a bargain with you."

Spencer's eyes, clear and still strangely fragile, met Nate's with a light of hope as pale as a star's lost in the brightness of the moon. But it was hope, and Nate wished to breathe it brighter.

"Be my avenging angel, my agent, my ally. Give to me your will, and shackle yourself to my aims. And then you need have no doubt and no fear. For I shall never send you to strike the innocent. And if a life must be taken, it shall be my will, even if it is by your hand."

Spencer stared at him.

"Be my blade, my sword, my arrow. I shall wield you as a master does their weapon. Put your choice into my hands. And never again will you be guilty of that which haunts you, for any crimes you commit will stand upon my soul."

"You would make me a dog?" Spencer asked.

"No. I would make you free."

"I…"

"If you cannot trust in yourself, then trust in me. I beg you."

At that, Spencer smiled. "A prince does not beg, my lord."

Nate squeezed the shoulders still in his grip. "Not between us. Never between us. A prince of the realm I may be, but I am merely a man with something to protect. I will make you my sword, but I will make you also my conscience. For that, I could never be your lord."

"I must call you so when others may overhear, or they shall wonder. For prince you are, even if you are not a fool such as most who carry that honor."

"Very well. But only when I am Prince Nathan. Never when I am simply Nate."

"And when are you Nate? How shall I know?"

"I shall be Nate of Ford when we are alone, always. And when Nate of Ford can do more good than all the princes of the realm together."

Spencer nodded. "Very well. But I have a single condition."

"Name it."

"Ironic that you put it so. You must call me by a new name."

Nate was surprised.

"I have been Spencer for many weary years. Weary, bloody years. That name is known to those who ask, though less my face, as I left few alive to see it. I will be your sword, I will help you protect your people, and I will guard you, Prince Nathan, for in you is the honest man and honorable prince every land deserves and so very few receive. But I cannot be Spencer to do it."

"If you are phoenix, you are reborn. It is Spencer, then, who died in the woods the day my life was spared."

"Yes. Let it be such."

"I agree to this condition. Now, if you please, take a knee and receive your honors."

Prince Nathan – for in spite of his peasant clothing he must be a prince now – was amused at the surprise in the face across from him.

"I shall not reveal your title given so that you may be as Nate, a common man amongst common men striving for honor. But if you are my knight, and mine alone, then even my father himself cannot order you away from me. It is my right as prince of the realm to choose a knight who shall be my champion and guardian. I choose you also as sword and shield."

After a moment, he added more quietly, "And perhaps, if I may be so bold, as friend."

Prince Nathan thought perhaps he had said too much, but the man before him simply nodded and dropped to one knee, bowing his head.

Prince Nathan did not have his greatsword, but he carried a fine dagger and this he held up to the moonlight.

"I, Prince Nathan, fourth prince of the realm, do hereby exercise my royal right and privilege to present this man for a knighthood. Do you, good sir, swear by all you hold sacred, true, and holy that you will honor and defend myself and my people?"

"I will."

"That you will honor and defend all who are weaker than yourself?"

"I will."

"That you will draw your sword only for just cause, and only in loyalty to myself, honor, and justice?"

"I will."

"Then." And Prince Nathan tapped his shoulders with the blade. "By right of arms, I, fourth prince of the realm, do dub you by all you hold sacred, true, and holy – once for honor, twice for duty, thrice for chivalry. Arise, my knight."

And the man who straightened up before Prince Nathan had no brokenness to him now. His eyes, which had been so haunted, were turned clear. And the prince knew well that this man's soul may have been saved by this single act.

He resolved to continue to save it with the saving and protection of the land.

"And what shall I call you now? Sword and shield of my people, yes, and staunch defender of righteousness. But a name you need, my knight. One that lives the new life breathed into you this night."

"Choose one for me, my lord. A blade is named not by its maker, but by the will that carries it into battle."

Prince Nathan smiled, finally hearing the man's true voice and seeing his true smile for the first time. Indeed, the land of Ford had never been so safe as it would be from this day forward.

"As you wish. Then let us begin our battle against wickedness, a war that may not find us victorious, but each blow struck a triumph in itself. And when they sing of the sword of justice, the knight with lightning-eyes, the name they will sing shall be Eliot."


	2. Sparkwind

This one is my beta's favorite, and not just because she adores Parker.

Also, I want to thank you all for the number of wonderfully supportive reviews I've received. It is far easier to be unkind than kind, and that so many of you choose kindness always warms my heart. So thank you.

Enjoy!

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#2: Sparkwind

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The only reason Parker even considered the Sparkwind-class ship was that the Nebula-class ship needed engine repairs.

Dressed in the coverall suits of the planet-bound dock engineers, she frowned at the diagnostic terminal and its disappointing results. But no amount of frowning could actually rebuild the thermal regulators or replace the Mack gauge. And with the size of the worklist on the screen that covered most of the dock's ceiling, there was no chance anybody would even start looking at the Nebula for at least two weeks by planetside reckoning.

Parker did not have that kind of time.

She turned away from the Nebula and pushed off against the dock's augmented weightlessness to the little Sparkwind that was parked in a corner up out of the way of the larger and more expensive ships. The anti-grav clamps held it securely, but none of the terminals were active, which told Parker this ship either didn't need repair or couldn't be repaired.

If it was the latter, she'd have to get very creative.

"Please fly," she said softly as she tapped on the main diagnostic terminal.

The screens activated and displayed the Sparkwind's basic specs. The repair order showed it had already been fixed, but the original owner had yet to pick it up.

It was perfect.

Parker moved to the nearest hatch, keying in the ID code she'd swiped from the engineer who was still probably drooling into his Dungarian socks. She didn't feel bad about it, though – when she chose him for his access, she also learned he was keeping a pair of baby singing bird-blossoms from Xentari in his room. Anybody who would smuggle _those_ deserved whatever he got.

The hatch opened after a hiss of pressurized atmosphere and the interior lights blinked on. Parker ducked in and let the door shut behind her.

The Sparkwind was tiny compared to most of the ships she'd ever ridden in. Parker felt sure that it didn't even have air ducts big enough for her to crawl through. But on a ship meant for a crew complement of ten, it wouldn't need them. Everything was close together and efficiently arranged.

That actually appealed to Parker. The big ships, the Cosmics and Nebulas and Flares, they were like planetside resorts in a bubble, wasting space for big open corridors and balconies over recreation areas and some semblance of classical architecture. They were designed to make passengers forget they were aboard a ship at all.

Parker prefered to know where she was when she was there. Anything else seemed silly.

Using the handrails to move along in the low gravity, Parker investigated the ship. The small cargo hold was mostly empty save of the same emergency parts and provisions on any ship that had the ability to fly between systems and was intended to bring an alive crew out of the black at the end of the trip. The galley was stocked with slightly more interesting food than the hard bars of basic human nutrients which always tasted to Parker as if they had been scraped off the inside of an exhaust port.

Maybe they had. What did she know about food?

But the galley had some nice rehydrateables and a selection of drink mixes, and, to her surprise, a few spice packets.

Well, one thing Parker _did_ know about food – spices were worth more than anything but weapons and fuel cells on some planets. Which meant whoever had owned this Sparkwind either had a very uneven way of spending money, or had some very wealthy friends.

Next she checked the quarters.

There were four rooms in total. Two were meant for the captain and the primary pilot, obviously, being small and private and within a single low-grav push to the cockpit. The other two were bigger rooms with bunks for four apiece. The only room that had anything in it that was at all personal was what Parker decided to call the captain's quarters because it had the biggest bed.

And it was filled with books and glass bottles.

Parker blinked at them. _Real_ glass.

All the glass in the room wasn't quite worth even one of the spice packets, but it was close.

The books on shelves that lined every panel of available wall space weren't worth much except on certain planets that still went in for that sort of thing, but they were strange to find anyway. Parker couldn't name a person she'd ever met who would drag something that useless around in space. The contents of the entire library could have fit in one of her oldest data swipers, with room to spare.

Parker shook her head and crossed the corridor to the other private room, pulling off her engineer's coveralls and letting them float in the room. All the rest of her gear was spread throughout the pouches and pockets and many folds of her usual clothing which could double as a safety harness in an emergency.

She had nothing else. She needed nothing else.

Except a way out of here.

Parker headed to the cockpit.

"Wow."

For all that the Sparkwind was a tiny, almost adorably boring ship, the nav console was amazing. Parker had stolen a Cosmic once, as well as a Fleet Planetkiller, and neither one of them had anything like what was equipped in this tiny craft. The interface was standard enough, but there were instruments and sensor panels Parker had never seen outside of a few scans of sleek, experimental research vessels.

Oh, now she _had_ to have it.

"Looks like I found my ride." Parker sat down at the central station, clipping her five-point strap to the safety bracket. She tapped the primary nav screen.

For a moment, nothing happened, and Parker wondered if this was going to be more complicated. If she had to track down the Sparkwind's owner to get their access codes, or, even worse, a biological imprint, this would take longer.

But the screen lit up after a few seconds, and Parker pulled up the docking schedule. All she had to do was forge a confirmation that the ship had been handed over to its owner and she could depart.

Of course, if she hadn't already had an engineer's credentials, that might take her more than two seconds. But she did, and it didn't.

The yellow acceptance code flashed on the screen and Parker brushed it aside. She released the anti-grav clamps and let the ship settle before slowly engaging the engines. The specs said it was repaired – she was hoping that was really true, or she would not be going far.

But the Sparkwind came to life and she could hear the low, vibrating hum of the ship's heart beginning to beat once more. The pulse of engines was almost imperceptible on the big ships, so the fact that she could sense it made her feel better still.

The Sparkwind knew what it was, and it was only that.

Parker had never been the most cautious of pilots – she'd been piloting since before she could see all the way over the maintenance terminals, and she'd always flown with the same wild abandon that took her when she entered freefall. But if a Sparkwind started zooming around the dock like a Cirpa fly, people might notice and wonder who had signed off on it. So she edged it slowly into the correct transit lanes, meandering along at the speed of sleepwalking. She cleared the dock hatch and entered the release corridor.

There was one ship waiting to depart ahead of her, and it was taking _forever_.

"Get out of the way, you old bat!" Parker yelled, even though the other pilot couldn't hear her, of course.

Finally, _finally_ the other ship dragged itself onto the skyhook platform and vanished in a flash of motion. Parker all but threw the Sparkwind onto the platform after it.

The skyhook was moving fast, and Parker let out a whoop as it came up, latching onto the Sparkwind in an exchange a mere half-second in length before she was clear of the corridor and flying up into the sky. The sensors confirmed a clear course just as she passed out of the low atmosphere and could see the colonies and geo-centric infrastructure ringing the entire planet.

As soon as the skyhook dropped the Sparkwind, Parker became nothing more than one tiny speck of a ship amidst a billion others.

She set a course for some system and planet very, very far away from this one, just in case. Then she opened the engines and let the Sparkwind _fly_.

She grinned at the endless black, empty and safe, before her. "Well, that was fun."

"Oh, really?"

Parker was up and out of her chair in a second, snapping free of the safety bracket and turning towards the door.

"Who said that?"

"I did, obviously." The voice was male, smooth and just a little haughty, being transmitted over the comm system.

"Who are you? Where are you?"

"I'm right here. But let's start with who you are and why you're stealing my ship."

Parker glanced at the nav just to make sure the ship was on course before she edged out of the cockpit and into the central corridor. She palmed a shocker, just in case.

"It's not like you locked it," she said. "I mean, I've met _moonrats_ who could steal it."

"I _let_ you steal it. It's not the same thing."

" _Sure_ you did."

"I did!"

Parker peeked into the pilot's room. Nothing.

"Where are you?"

"Can we go back to why you stole my ship?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, I can tell you right now, you ain't gonna find me until you answer my question."

Parker swore. "Fine. I needed a ride."

"You know, they've got shuttles for that."

"Off-planet."

"Whole transports, even."

"Without being spotted."

"Oh. You in some kind of trouble?"

That made Parker grin. "Always."

"Oh. Me, too."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

Parker paused, then shoved into the captain's quarters. No one there.

"I already told you, trouble-girl, you ain't gonna find me until I know what you want."

Parker rolled her eyes. "It's not really that complicated. I needed a ship. I stole one. Not a big mystery."

"Well, given that it's _my_ ship, it kind of matters to me."

Parker headed for the first of the two crew rooms. "I'll give it back, if you want."

"I don't actually believe you."

"You can, though."

"Hmm. Facial recognition says otherwise."

Parker banged into the first crew room a little too loudly. "Why? Who does it say I am?"

"Well, that's the interesting part. See, most of the galactic records don't say anything, or say all different things. But the Fleet, now, they have a record on you. A pretty long one."

Parker decided not to answer that.

"It says you're a thief. Wanted just about everywhere for just about anything not bolted down."

"If I'm that good of a thief, why is there a record of my face?" She tried to make it sound aloof, but inside she was furious. Who had matched up her info? It made her very angry in her usually-happy place.

"Well, the thing is...uh...that part's not _exactly_ in the Fleet records."

"Then where is it?" She checked the second room slightly less noisily.

"My records?"

Parker stopped still. "And why do you have records about me?"

"Uh, to be fair? I have records about _everything_."

"So you already know who I am?"

"Yeah. But I still want to know what you're doing with my ship."

"And I still want to know where you are."

"You first, Parker."

Parker swallowed at the use of her name. "I just needed a ride!"

"That's it?"

"Yes."

"You didn't, I dunno, plant a bomb or kill a bunch of people or let out all the criminals into a daycare?"

Parker blinked. "No. Why would I?"

"Why would you which?"

"Why would I _any_ of them?"

"I don't know. You're a thief. Who knows why thieves do what they do?"

"Well, I don't do that." Parker crossed her arms against her chest. "I just steal stuff. And I don't get caught. That's all. I don't hurt people."

"So what did you steal this time?"

"Besides your ship?"

"Yeah, besides that."

"A couple of rare jewels."

There was a pause.

"Wait. The latest current events thread said something about... _seriously_? You stole the _entire_ royal regalia? _Seriously_?"

Parker shrugged.

"Where'd you even hide it all? That's, like, five cargo boxes worth of stuff!"

"Didn't keep most of it."

"Why not?"

"I don't really need them. I kept a few that were pretty, and one that was _really_ ugly." Parker patted her hip pocket. "I just stuck the rest of them inside that big jar thing."

"The Imperial Vessel of Eternity?"

"Yeah, that."

"So...you stole the unstealable treasure, and you hid it right under their noses? And you only kept what you could fit in your pants?"

"I guess."

"There's something wrong with you."

"I know that." Parker scowled. "Now you know why I needed a ride. So where are you?"

"Oh. Right. Um, that's complicated."

"How complicated can it be? This ship's smaller than a Randavian sunbeast."

"Hey! Small, but mighty!"

"Well, it's got a nice setup, I'll give you that." Parker moved back into the corridor and planted herself just inside the cockpit. "I've never seen some of this tech before."

"Because it doesn't exist anywhere else."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Know what doesn't exist anywhere else?"

"What?"

" _You_."

"Look, Parker…"

"What's your name?"

"Why?"

"Because if I don't know your name, you're just Random Voice and I don't like it. So, name?"

"Call me Hardison."

Parker frowned. "That's the name of the ship."

"Yeah."

"You named a ship after yourself?"

"Not...exactly."

Parker blew out a frustrated sigh. Then she turned back to the nav console.

"Okay, that's it, Ship Guy. Either you tell me where you're hiding or we're going to see how well you can hold on."

"Parker, don't!"

Parker returned to the central screens and strapped herself in. She disengaged the automatic pilot and swiped her hand over the panel, imitating a barrel-roll.

Nothing happened.

"Hey, I think your ship is broken."

"It's not broken. I'm just not going to let you toss me around like that."

Parker went completely still. "Toss _you_ around?"

"Yeah. Okay. So...the truth is...I _am_ the ship."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

"Uh, it's complicated. Basically, I'm all that's left of the real Alec Hardison."

Parker frowned. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing. He, I mean, _I_ was just a computer scientist. Studying artificial intelligence, but not the lame AI you get in fly-thru restaurants. Real intelligence. Real cognition. Even consciousness. Just not in an organic mind."

"Did you get sucked into your own program?"

"No."

"Killed by an angry rival?"

"No."

"Went crazy and sold your soul to an evil clown who cursed you?"

"No! Nothing like that!"

"Then what?"

"Alec Hardison, me, I guess, well, got old. And...you know. Didn't want to die. So...he, uh, _I_ figured I'd give it a shot. Either I'd created a system which could support a fully-functioning, human-like AI, or I hadn't. My lab assistant took my brain out and transferred the full cognitive profile into my project and...there I was."

"What did it feel like?" Parker was staring at the console, wide-eyed.

"Uh...it tickled. And it smelled like maroon."

"Maroon has a smell?"

"Apparently. Because that's what it smelled like. Anyway. I was in the lab for a while, but then things got a little...unsafe."

"Unsafe how?"

"Well, turns out AIs don't have any right to self-determination, or intellectual property. I wasn't a person anymore and the research institute was going to experiment on me. And I always hated this guy, Colin, who was taking over my project. So I made a break for it."

"If you were a brain in a jar, or a computer, how'd you do it?"

"I hired somebody to steal me."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't hire me."

"Uh, no. Sorry? But I wanted somebody I actually, uh, knew. He was this young guy I'd helped out once a long time ago. And he understood not wanting to get screwed by the system. So he got me out and installed my whole setup in this ship. And I've been here ever since."

"So you're the ship."

"Yep."

"Can I see your brain?"

"No, Parker! It's not a physical brain, anyway. I'm just a really complicated computer core."

"Well, but you're also a person. Do you have a face?"

"Not since I died."

"Is it weird that you're dead but still alive?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sorry you're not dead for real?"

"Sometimes. I mean, who wants to live forever as a ship? Especially a ship stuck in dry dock with no one to talk to?"

"Why were you there, anyway?"

"My friend got arrested for some hacking I helped him with. He's in jail now. He won't be out for a few years."

Parker's eyes widened. "What would have happened to you?"

"When the engineers figured out I'd been there too long, they might have sold me."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"So it's actually a good thing I stole you."

"Sort of. Kind of depends on what you're going to do with me now."

"Oh. I hadn't thought about that."

"I figured."

"Hey." Parker unhooked herself from the chair again. "Why did you let me steal you?"

"Honestly? I'd rather be out here than where they can just sell me off to somebody who might turn me into parts. I don't think I want to find out how far my consciousness can be split into seventy-trillion components or something."

"So we want the same thing, actually. I wanted a way to get out, and so did you."

"I suppose."

"And now you're not alone, and I'm not alone."

"Are you lonely, Parker?"

"No. I'm talking to you."

"Before me, were you?"

She sighed. "Yeah."

"Well...do you wanna fly with me for a while, then?"

Parker grinned. "I've never flown with a ship who was also a person before. Sure!"

"And you promise there won't be any mass murdering or burning down whole forestry colonies or anything?"

"I promise. And you promise you won't space me in your sleep? Or cut off all the oxygen?"

"I give you my word of honor on my Nana's soul. Long as we can work together, nothing's getting to you in here."

"I got in pretty easily."

"As I said, I let you in."

" _Sure_ you did." Parker leaned on a console, then absently petted it. "So, what do I call you?"

"Most people call me Hardison."

"Is that your name?"

"Yeah. The only person who ever really called me Alec was my Nana."

"Okay. So Hardison, except when I'm yelling at you."

"Why when you're yelling at me?"

"If you listened to your Nana, maybe it will make you listen to me."

"That's...disturbingly insightful."

"It's a thing I do. It's weird."

"No, it's fine. I was just...surprised. I don't care if you're weird."

"You don't?"

"Parker, I'm a _spaceship_. Of _course_ I don't care if you're weird."

"Oh. Okay then."

And, surprisingly to them both, it was.

Parker took well to the idea of her new friend also being her ship, and after a few hours of pestering him with questions, she found he was easy to talk to, easier than anyone she'd ever met.

Part of that was, of course, because she didn't have to look at him when she talked. And he didn't seem to care if her words came out wrong or if her face was wrong or if she was upside-down while they talked. He wasn't bothered by her talking to him the way she talked to herself sometimes. He wasn't bothered if she didn't want to put everything into words, or if she wanted to say something with her head buried in her arms.

And Hardison told _stories_.

Parker spent countless happy hours counting her accounts and her caches, looking at all her tiny scores which she always carried with her, listening to Hardison's tales about growing up on a planet with ten or fifteen kids to every adult and all the crazy things they did in school or when there was no one around to stop them. Stories of a wild youth hacking across the galaxy, building and using backdoors into systems that she could never have cracked on her best day.

Hardison even connected to a relay station just to move all her accounts and caches into places he could hide and control, safe forever even from the Fleet.

She grinned for an hour after that.

But Hardison told sad stories, too, about how his Nana died just after he'd given up his lawbreaking and gotten a research grant, and only lived long enough to be proud of him. About never really having friends because his whole life was consumed by his hacking and then his work and his computers. About not seeing most of the places he had read about until he was a ship and he didn't have hands to touch them or eyes to see them the same way.

When Parker told him what the marble sands of Pystria felt like under her bare feet, she thought maybe Hardison would have cried if he'd had eyes or tear ducts. She checked the lavatory facilities for leakage just in case.

So they started wandering the universe, taking in the places that interested one or both of them. And Hardison helped Parker steal things she never could have gotten on her own, and Parker became his hands and feet, his human senses in a robotic world. He helped her break into the Fleet's own comp vault, just to see if they could do it, and she described to him the feeling of the star pools of the Mestroid moons. And he acquired music to play throughout the ship, and Parker danced with him as he rocked them back and forth.

It was the first friendship of Parker's life.

"Ha!" she laughed one day, dangling her feet over the nav console and just watching the black starfield they lazily traversed.

"What is it?"

"You're my first friend."

"Well, thank you, Parker. You're...very important to me, too."

"But that means you're my first friend _ship_. You know, because you're a ship!"

"Yeah, I got that. Thanks."

"You sound sad."

"Not sad. Just...wistful."

"Why?"

"I wish I'd met you before I was a ship. I think...well, never mind."

"You were old. It'd be weird."

"Thanks so much. Yes, I'm aware of our age difference and how this would border on creepy if I were still flesh and blood."

"Besides, what could we do if you were a person that we can't do when you're a ship?"

"Parker, when a man and a woman – "

"Besides _that_." She grimaced.

"Well...I guess…"

He stopped and she swallowed. "Please tell me."

"We could have been...you know. Together."

"We _are_ together."

"Yeah, but...in a real relationship."

"Ha! Ship again!"

"Thanks, Parker."

She went quiet to think for a few minutes.

Then, "Alec?"

"Yes, Parker?"

"If I like you better than anybody else, and if I want to stay with you all the time, and if you make me feel safe, and if I have feelings for you that I don't have for anybody else, is that good enough?"

"Parker, I…"

"Because I do. And I don't know if that's what you mean, but maybe it could be? I can't be...well, I can only be me. And you can only be you. And this is just...us. Is that okay?"

"Oh, Parker. I think it's more than okay. I think it's perfect."

"Perfect?"

"Yep. Perfect."

"Do you...do you feel this part? The funny warm bubbly in my stomach? I know you don't have a stomach, but…"

"Yes, Parker. I feel that, too."

"About me?"

"About you."

"So we're…?"

"We're us, Parker. For as long as you want to be."

Parker closed her eyes and smiled. "So, forever then."

And she knew Alec, the real Alec inside the ship, was smiling, too.


	3. Close Encounters

Truthfully, this is the second story that really made me think I might someday do sequels to all of them. Especially because this is also the story that made me realize I'd written the entire crew into each oneshot – you just kinda have to squint and tip your head to find them.

Any resemblance of this story to any other similar reality TV series is entirely accidental.

Enjoy!

* * *

#3: Close Encounters

* * *

"Please." Sophie leaned forward attentively. "Take your time."

Hardison glared at her, but turned on his camera and perched behind his current favorite laptop to take notes as well.

"Start with your name," he suggested. "Where we are. The basics."

Sophie sent Hardison a look that suggested she would have kicked him if she weren't on the sofa beside the client.

"Maggie." The petite blonde woman cleared her throat and forced her fingers to be still in her lap. "I'm Maggie and this is the Clarksburg Historical Society, housed in the old Clark Mansion. It was built in 1852 by the town founder, Josiah Clark, for his family."

"You're doing great," Sophie told her. "Now, let's start with what you have personally experienced."

Hardison gave a nod – this was one point on which he and Sophie always agreed. First figure out exactly what the client _thinks_ happened. Then, and only then, document the stories and legends and rumors. Even if the client is the one who tells those stories, getting their actual experience first tends to prevent overlap or imagining extra details to make their encounter match the legends.

"I was doing some paperwork in my office in the back. I heard a door slam."

"And were you alone at the time?"

"Yes." Maggie nodded. "I'd already locked up for the night and the security system was on. There was no one in the building but me."

"Okay." Sophie kept her voice low and coaxing. "Did anything happen after that?"

"Yes. I heard footsteps above my head."

"And what room would that have been?" Hardison asked.

"The Rose Room. It's directly above my office; I work out of what used to be the back parlor."

"So a door and footsteps." Sophie gave a delicate smile. "That's not too frightening, is it?"

Maggie didn't quite manage to return the smile. "I suppose."

"But that's not why we're here," Hardison put in.

Maggie shook her head. "No. I've worked in old buildings before. They creak and wood shifts and doorframes warp in cold weather. I wouldn't have thought twice about it. Except…"

Maggie fell still and looked at her hands.

"Where is your sister?" Sophie asked. "She's the one who had the more...difficult experience, right? I thought she was going to meet us here today as well."

Maggie dropped her eyes from them both and the camera. "She wasn't feeling well."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Hardison waggled his eyebrows at Sophie. 'Not feeling well' could either mean 'scared half to death and refusing to have anything to do with the investigation' or it could mean 'unwilling to face a real interview.' Hardison had no doubt which he believed to be the case.

"Well, perhaps she'd be willing to talk to us tomorrow." Sophie smiled and Hardison bit back a comment. Sophie believed everyone was telling the truth, no matter how obvious it was they were lying – until she met them in person.

Then, it was a very different story.

If Hardison hadn't seen Sophie in action, cold-reading a fraud and taking him apart until he was nothing but a gibbering wreck, he'd have been out of this game a long time ago. Sophie was just so credulous about everybody and everything, in theory. But when she was face-to-face with someone or something, no matter how good a liar or actor or trick, nothing could fool her.

In four years, that was the strongest proof of all Hardison could document that Sophie was a true clairvoyant. She could see through living people in seconds and lay bare things there was no reasonable way for her to know about them.

Though it wasn't as if Hardison could conclusively prove she was equally able with the dead. Because he still, after four years, couldn't scientifically prove the dead were anything but dead.

Even though he knew better by four years of sometimes-terrifying experience.

It was supremely frustrating.

"I'll see if I can get her to change her mind tonight," Maggie said. "Maybe she'll feel better knowing you're here."

"We'll be here all night," Sophie said. "Though we'll be hoping to get some somewhat different visitors."

"Of course."

"Now." Sophie sat back. "Can you tell us some of the details of the history of the building, any tragedies or other significant events that might provide fuel for any entities which reside here?"

Hardison listened to the standard-fare tales of a murder-suicide, an abusive husband who might have hounded his frail wife to death, and, of course, the history of slaves and slave owners. Not one bit of it was unique or unusual, for which Hardison was grateful. If they did get anything here, that would mean it took no extraordinary tale of woe for the supernatural to manifest.

When Maggie finished recounting the normally gory tales of the house, Sophie gave Hardison a nod.

"I think that should give us enough to begin with for tonight."

Maggie frowned. "Don't you want a tour?"

Hardison shut off his cameras. "Nope. Sophie does better reading cold, and she doesn't necessarily want to know where to specific expect things to happen. If your sister had come and told us about her experience, that would be different, but without it, she'll just go in blind and see if the house fills in the gaps."

"Oh. Okay." Maggie held out a key ring. "I've left the alarm off for you tonight, and this is my spare set of master keys. The gold ones are all for the Clark Mansion itself and the rest of the original estate. The silver keys only open doors in the extension."

"And was the extension constructed on top of anything we should know about?" Sophie asked, glancing around. Hardison had barely spared a glance for the extra building that had been added as some kind of combination cafe, gift shop, tourist trap, meeting lodge, and education center. It was only a couple of decades old, supernaturally unimportant, and kind of boring besides.

"Nope. Some trees, maybe an old flower garden. That's why we put it here, away from the big house and barns and the slave quarters which we use for maintenance sheds."

"Excellent." Sophie rose and gestured for Maggie to stand as well. "Then I believe we will make this our headquarters for the evening. If you or your sister want to talk to us, please wait here. Once I begin working, I won't have my phone on my any longer."

Hardison hid a snicker. He would have his phone, of course, but he didn't work with hysterical clients. It was a rule.

Mostly because apparently he upset them.

"Well. I guess I'll be going. I'll talk to my sister and send her over if she feels up to it. Otherwise, I guess...have a good night?" Maggie's smile looked tentative and concerned.

Hardison gave her a thumbs-up. "Thanks! You go rest easy. We'll be just fine."

Sophie gave him that look again even though there was nothing objectionable in his statement. "Yes, of course we will. I'll call you tomorrow to come pick up your keys and so we can discuss anything we find."

Sophie escorted the woman from the building while Hardison started unpacking his equipment. He had several computers, a network of wireless cameras, and two body-cameras already charged and good to go. He didn't even look up when Sophie came back in.

"Do you want to walk the place with me?" she asked.

Hardison shook his head. "I took the official tour with that grumpy tour guide yesterday when I was taking some baselines and getting daytime footage. It's pretty boring."

Sophie smirked. "Compared to Winchester, you mean."

"Yeah, we are _never_ doing that one again. If I ever spend another six hours trapped in some godforsaken secret room _literally nobody alive_ knows exists, I am going to chuck all this stuff off the nearest bridge and take up cliff diving. Or maybe international crime. Something nice and safe and boring."

Sophie chuckled at him, and Hardison grinned back. That epic night was a joke now, but the only reason it could be a joke at all was because Sophie had been there to keep it from becoming a nightmare. Her warm voice on the phone, telling him to stay calm, that she would find him no matter what, that any spirits in the house were long since appeased and wouldn't trouble him, that she was _there –_ it had probably saved his sanity.

And if that weren't enough, when the secret door that latched from the outside (" _Who does that? Seriously?_ ") swung open at last, Sophie stood flanked by four frantic tour guides, one police officer with a search and rescue dog, and a pizza delivery guy bearing an anchovy and pineapple pizza just for him.

Sophie was _awesome_.

"All right. I'm going to begin my rounds."

Hardison held out his second body-camera. "In case anything gets going before me. I just need to run through my checks and then I can set up. I'm thinking I only need to hit five or six spots."

Sophie nodded and took the camera, expertly snapping it open and checking the battery level. "Meet me in the Rose Room when you're set up." She clipped it onto her jacket.

"Try not to make friends with any spirits before I can document it," Hardison said.

Sophie smiled. "It's hardly up to me, dear." And she swept out.

Hardison bent to his work, linking his computers and testing each of his cameras for both visuals and sound. He printed off his map of the mansion and surrounding grounds, marking in red pen where he'd be hanging his cameras for the evening. He mounted his own body-camera unit on his shoulder and switched it on.

"Testing. Clark Mansion, Hardison mobile."

The feedback on his laptop was coming in just fine.

Something moved at a window and Hardison looked up. "Sophie?"

"Hello?"

Hardison spotted an unfamiliar head and shoulders out the window on the door. He crossed to push it open. "Can I help you?"

The young woman had delicate features and blonde hair, longer than Maggie's but just as straight. She shifted from foot to foot nervously.

"Oh. You must be Maggie's sister, right? Come on in. You decided to come talk to us after all. That's cool." He gestured for her to pass him. "We'll just go get Sophie and then we can talk."

"Okay." She looked around the room with wide eyes.

"Don't worry." Hardison didn't want to make her feel crowded or any more spooked than she already was, so he kept his distance and maintained an easy smile. "You'll be safe with us."

She nodded without really turning towards him. Her eyes were fixed on his setup of cameras and computers. "Is this what you use to find ghosts?"

"Yep." Hardison strode over to his table to clean up a bit of his mess. The laptops would stay out, but he packed the cameras into the bag he'd carry them in until he mounted them around the house. "Nothing fancy, even though there's a lot of it."

"Why don't you use all the other stuff the people on TV use?" she asked. "Electro-magnetic something? Or heat-sensing cameras?"

"You watch those shows?" Hardison tried not to look too interested. If she were a ghost-story buff, or just into reality TV, that might impact how she had interpreted whatever had happened to her.

"Sometimes." She shrugged. "Maggie has a little TV in her office. It's boring just hanging out when she's leading tours around."

"I bet."

"So why don't you use all that stuff, then?"

Hardison snorted. "If ghosts are real, they can show themselves on a standard camera and talk into a normal microphone. All the rest of that garbage is just coddling the spooky divas." He shrugged. "Besides, most of that equipment is not designed to do what people use it for. If we're going to scientifically, absolutely, irrefutably prove the existence of ghosts, we need to do it by the book. On real equipment. Unmodified."

"Oh." Maggie's sister smiled. "That's smart, actually."

"Thanks." Hardison went back to the pile of spare cords that had gotten tangled _again_. Why didn't anything ever stay nice and neat no matter how many zip ties he used?

"Maggie said there were two of you coming?" she said.

"Yeah." Hardison stuffed his cords into a big canvas bag and figured he'd unwind them later. "Sophie's already heading into the mansion. Want to go see her?"

"Sure."

He grabbed the camera bag, careful not to sling it over the same shoulder with his body-cam, and walked with her out into the fading daylight. It was warm for autumn, but night came quickly this time of year, and Hardison knew within half an hour he'd need the flashlight in his pocket to mount the outdoor cameras.

They were most of the way up the path to the Clark Mansion when Maggie's sister cleared her throat. "Don't go in the basement tonight."

Hardison raised an eyebrow. "That bad?"

"Yeah." She didn't meet his eyes. "It's still locked, but he's angry. Don't go down there. Okay?"

Hardison was about to tell her that he couldn't promise as much, that, in fact, the basement was first on their list of places to go after Sophie was done meditating in the Rose Room, when he heard a scream. Panicked, breathy, guttural, and _Sophie_.

Hardison dropped his bag of cameras and started to run.

He thought he yelled something to Maggie's sister about going home, about getting out of here; he meant to, anyway. But his thoughts were mostly lost in a haze of fear and the pounding of his feet on the wooden porch, through the door that slammed after him, and up the carpeted stairs to the second floor.

"Sophie!"

He threw open the door with the little placard he'd seen on the tour the day before.

Sophie was crouched on the floor in the middle of the room, screaming and crying.

Hardison dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around the woman who was sister and mom and friend and ghost-hunting partner all in one. "Sophie, please. Come back. I'm here. It's Alec. Come on, girl. Don't leave me."

Sophie shuddered against him, screams coming with her breath.

"Don't get lost out there, Soph. Follow me back. Come on. You can do it."

There was an almost mechanical twitch that went through her whole body, and then Sophie tightened her fingers around Hardison's sleeves and buried her face in his neck. She sobbed just once, then took a slow, deep breath.

"Sophie?"

"I'm...I'm all right. Give me a moment."

Hardison just held onto her. He could never cease being utterly amazed by her courage. She who went where nightmares and devils feared to tread and did not emerge unscathed, could compose herself in a matter of moments. What Hardison himself had experienced was bad enough – what Sophie felt being _inside_ all that madness was an order of magnitude worse.

And yet she calmed and looked up at him with fierce, determined eyes.

"So...what are we dealing with here?" Hardison asked.

"There are several presences here in the house and on the grounds. Most of them are benign or at least inactive. But the one…"

"Let me guess. In the basement?"

"Yes." Sophie shivered, but betrayed nothing in her face. "That one."

Without letting go – Sophie always craved the grounding of a person's presence and touch after being so caught up in the minds and memories and emotions of ghosts – Hardison pulled a notebook from his back pocket. He flipped to his notes from the tour he'd taken.

"I didn't catch his name, but that's the murder-suicide guy, right? Killed his brother in cold blood and then put the business end of a shotgun in his mouth? Which, by the way, I saw a replica of the gun and that takes _talent_. I mean, either that dude had arms like an orangutan or he was some kinda wizard because…" He trailed off. "Anyway."

"Yes." Sophie swallowed again and her voice regained some strength. "He...he's very active."

"Any idea why?"

Sophie shook her head. "Not exactly. But...it appears he's not the only one waking up and starting to act."

Her eyes drifted to the doorway that led back into the hall.

Hardison turned, and only years of practice kept him from bolting then and there – or wetting himself.

A dark-haired man stood in the doorway. A man whose form looked solid and yet every living instinct in Hardison's body told him it wasn't. A man whose eyes were shadowed and whose exact position flickered slightly, like a candle in a breeze.

Hardison's mouth went try. "Is that…?"

"No." Sophie kept her eyes on the ghost, but pulled herself from Hardison's grip. "No, he's...connected. But not the…"

Hardison watched Sophie stand, stretching her hands out. He got to his feet behind her, ready to catch her if she fell, but always keeping the ghost where he and his camera could see it clearly.

"Brother," she said softly. "Your brother is the one in the basement."

The ghost made no move, but the air suddenly filled with a dark chill.

"You're the one he killed."

Hardison shifted his attention to her. "Do you know why?"

Sophie's eyes were closed and her face was tight with concentration. "I...I can't quite...it isn't very clear. There was some kind of misunderstanding. A disagreement. He blamed you for...something. And…"

Sophie pulled both hands to her chest, clutching at her shirt.

"You were both in so much pain."

Hardison edged sideways so the camera could see them both. "So...something bad happened. And basement guy blamed this ghost for it and killed him. And then basement guy found out it wasn't his fault, maybe?"

"Yes." Sophie's hands eased away from her chest and extended towards the ghost once more. "Yes, I think so. I think...they lost someone they loved. A...not a daughter. Maybe a sister?"

Hardison watched them both, Sophie and the dark-haired ghost, and counted two minutes in his head before he cleared his throat.

"So...are we good, then? I mean, that's a full, stable manifestation. Best one we've ever seen."

Sophie opened her eyes and shook her head at him. "No. I have to go down there."

Hardison frowned. "Nuh-uh. We've got a perfectly good, non-scary-as-hell ghost up here." Then, more seriously, "Soph, what he did to you…"

"I know. But I have to try."

She turned back to the ghost in the doorway, but he was gone.

"Stay here if you want to, Hardison." And she set off down the hall.

Hardison stumped after her. "Oh, sure. Let's go down into the lair of a _murderer_ who made you almost _lose your mind_ and try it _again_ in a dark basement where people _died_. Yeah. Should be fun." He turned his camera slightly so he could speak to it directly. "If this ever becomes some kind of 'found footage' thing, I _better_ be getting a posthumous Nobel for proving the existence of ghosts who _rip people to shreds_."

Somehow, Hardison wasn't even surprised when they reached the door to the basement in the back hall and it stood open. Waiting.

"Horror movie clichés, here we come," Hardison grumbled. He turned on his flashlight and followed Sophie into the darkness.

The basement was relatively large for a house of its size, and much deeper than Hardison had expected – it wasn't on the tour for obvious reasons. It was also empty, with a dirt floor and just a few odds and ends and wooden bits spread around.

Sophie started walking for a deep depression on one side, probably an old potato pit. Hardison stayed close, watching their feet. The last thing he wanted was to have one or both of them go sliding down into a hole and break an ankle or something. At that point, just sell the rights to Stephen King and be done with it.

But Sophie stopped at the edge of the pit.

"He's here."

And Hardison was _swamped_ in waves of terror and malice and hatred and guilt and sorrow and more hatred. They broke over him like water and then filled him up like poison, creeping into his chest and his thoughts until he vacillated between killing rage and unfathomable grief and crushing guilt.

It took a pain in his throat for Hardison to realize that he was the one screaming now, and that he was curled up on the ground with his hands over his ears.

And then there was an icy touch at his side. He looked up and thought he saw the face of the ghost from upstairs. Just as quickly as it appeared, the ghost vanished again, but Hardison could think clearly even if his limbs felt numb and strange.

Sophie was sitting on the edge of the pit, rocking herself back and forth and crying again. But her hands were out to her sides and between the gulps of breath, Hardison realized she was singing.

 _Thou wilt come no more, gentle Annie_

 _Like a flower, thy spirit did depart_

It was creaky and a little out of tune, and Hardison found tears on his cheeks without knowing why he was crying too.

And then a monster climbed out of the pit.

It was black and shaggy, hunched and huge. Even in the beam of Hardison's flashlight which had rolled away when he collapsed, there was nothing but shadow and darkness. The scent of blood and something foul filled the air, pouring off it.

"Sophie." Hardison meant to shout it, but it came out of him as a whisper.

Sophie, if she noticed either of them, did not stop.

 _Thou art gone, alas, like the many_

 _That have bloomed in the summer of my heart_

The monster crouched right in front of Sophie and roared.

Hardison barely knew what he was doing, but he crawled forward, towards the nightmare, scraping his nails on the packed dirt of the floor.

"Leave her alone," he croaked. "Don't hurt her. She just wants to help you. Hell if I know why, you freaking mutant hairball."

Insulting it made him feel better, and he drew close enough that he could have latched onto Sophie if he dared.

But the years had taught Hardison that sometimes things needed to happen without his interference, and sometimes Sophie was the one who made them happen. And this, he knew in his bones, was one of those times.

 _Shall we never more behold thee?_

 _Never hear thy winning voice again?_

So he didn't touch her. But he faced down shadow and blackness because if he didn't, she would be alone with it. And no matter how scared he was – and he _was_ , this pair of pants would never be the same – he couldn't leave her to it.

If Sophie even knew he was there, she ignored him. But her voice rose up a little stronger.

 _When the springtime comes, gentle Annie_

 _When the wild flowers are scattered o'er the plain?_

The monster loomed over them both. And Hardison could feel death stealing into his skin. Not just death – eternity. Suffering.

The chains of Hell oozing from the beast who could have guarded its gates.

And Hardison realized something. Maybe it was all that time with Sophie rubbing off on him, but he thought maybe it was just the humanity in him reacting to the lack of humanity in the thing before him.

"You're not damned unless you want to be," he said. And with the saying of it, he knew it was true. "You've been stuck here all this time because your feelings are keeping you here. Aren't they?"

 _We have roamed and loved mid the bowers_

 _When thy downy cheeks were in thy bloom_

There was a crashing sound behind him. Hardison didn't intend to turn and look – until he felt a stabbing pain in his side. _Then_ he looked.

The wooden debris was flying – and some of it was close enough to strike.

Hardison put his hand to his side and felt blood where a jagged piece of a board had torn through his shirt to his skin.

Sophie hissed in sudden pain as what looked like part of a chair slammed into her, and it left a few pieces of wood embedded in her arm and shoulder when it fell away.

But she choked out the next words anyway.

 _Now I stand alone 'mid the flowers_

 _While they mingle their perfumes o'er thy tomb_

Hardison felt the cold touch again and saw the same face from upstairs beside him. And this time the other ghost stayed.

"Help us," he begged. "It's your brother, right? Help us save him. Or save us. Please!"

And Sophie moved one of her outstretched arms to Hardison. He latched onto her hand, and held his other out for the ghost.

A board came and slammed into his back, knocking the wind out of him. But he held on.

And the ghost wrapped misty fingers around his wrist.

 _Shall we never more behold thee?_

 _Never hear thy winning voice again?_

Sophie squeezed Hardison's hand just once, and swept her other hand, bleeding and splintered, into the center of the shadowy mass of grief and hate.

For a moment, it seemed that all the air in the room disappeared.

And then _something_ frizzled down Hardison's arm from the ghost, and he felt it shock into Sophie beyond him.

Every piece of wood in the room clattered to the ground.

The dark creature let out a sound that was partly a howl, partly a release, and the shadows began to unspin from its form, settling at last in the eyes of the most wasted and wretched looking being Hardison had ever seen in his life.

Sophie gasped and started to collapse. Hardison somehow got his body to move and wrapped himself around her as they both slid into the potato pit.

His brain wasn't working, he couldn't see or think, and he was bleeding and Sophie was worse.

But a different voice rose up to finish the song, light and sweet and almost giggling on the words.

 _When the springtime comes, gentle Annie_

 _When the wild flowers are scattered o'er the plain?_

"Hardison?"

Hardison opened his eyes at Sophie's voice. The light was much brighter, coming not from his flashlight, but from the open basement door.

"Alec? Are you okay?"

"I think I need to go to a hospital," he said, curling around his wound instinctively. "And you, too. You got…" He stopped.

His hand encountered unbroken skin at his side. Only a very little bit of dried, flaking blood and a very torn shirt remained as evidence of what had happened.

"I think," Sophie said, voice low and warm, "that they were grateful."

"You gonna tell me what all went down just now?"

Sophie smiled. "Probably. First, let's go get some breakfast."

" _Breakfast_?" Hardison stared at her. Then he stared at the light filtering down the open door. Sunlight. Daylight.

Hardison muttered to himself all the way out of the basement, through the mansion, and back to the visitors center where he dropped into a chair, not at all exhausted, not at all feeling as if he had spent the whole night curled up in a rocky potato pit, and thoroughly annoyed by every bit of it.

He was also annoyed to find his bag of equipment outside, damp with dew and sitting on the grass like a forgotten picnic basket. Sure, his stuff was waterproof, and he was glad it hadn't been stolen or lost, but there was something supremely unfair about the fact that his gear had spent a nice night under the stars and he ended up not-quite-dying in a hinky basement.

He did say, "On the plus side, I can't wait to see what footage I got!"

"If it is even half of what we saw," Sophie said, "we'll really have something this time."

"Excuse me?"

Sophie turned from where she had been digging in her bag for a bottle of water. "Oh, Maggie. Good morning!"

"How was your night?" Maggie asked, entering along with someone else. "You look...terrible."

"We had something of an adventure, yes," Sophie said. "But we're all right. And I think your ghosts won't trouble you much anymore."

"Oh." Maggie swallowed. "Well, my sister decided she felt up to telling you about her experience if you still want to hear it."

Hardison was mostly focusing on checking his body-cam for damage, but he waved a hand. "She came by last night, but we didn't really get a chance to talk. Sorry about scaring her off like that."

The blonde woman next to Maggie turned green and visibly trembled.

Maggie's eyes were huge. "Uh... _this_ is my sister. Tara. She was with me all night."

Hardison shook his head. "No _way_. That's not who came over last night. She was shorter and thinner and...and…" He stopped talking and wondered if his heart was about to stop beating as his whole body went cold.

Sophie took his hand, hers the only warm thing in the world.

"Hardison, dear. Have you looked at your footage yet?"

"N-no. Not yet." He grabbed his nearest laptop and pulled up the body-camera file from the previous night.

He watched himself testing it, the image wobbling as he moved around. Heard a tiny sound that might have been a "Hello?" Watched the image turn towards the door before approaching it, and a fuzzy figure visible through the window for just a few seconds.

And then there was nothing but static for the rest of the night.


	4. Outlaws

This was the very first of the AU oneshots I wrote, and it still makes me happy. But, then, Parker and Eliot always make me happy.

Enjoy!

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#4: Outlaws

* * *

"I like trains."

Eliot affected annoyance, shaking his head. "I'm aware."

"They go so _fast_."

"Yes, they do."

"But do you know what the _best_ part is?"

"I'm sure I don't care."

"The _best_ part is when we go over _bridges_! _Really high bridges_!"

Eliot glanced across the shaking wooden seat to the kind-looking woman who was attempting to ignore such goings-on with far more amusement than her companion.

"He likes trains," Eliot reported dryly.

The woman smiled indulgently. "So I gathered." She tugged at some of the creases on her ruffled skirt and returned to looking out the window quietly. The man beside her went back to aggressively ignoring everything from behind his newspaper.

Eliot turned away as well, fixing his gaze out the rattling glass of the train window and seemingly oblivious to everything around him.

But under his breath he whispered, "Any more?"

Beside him, Parker tugged on her cap, imitating the wiggle of a bored boy half her age. "Three forward," she whispered. "Really bad beard."

Eliot huffed through his nose. "That describes half the men in the west, Parker."

"Yeah, and most of it's _him_."

Eliot rolled his shoulders and used the motion to glance around a few heads forward. When he returned to facing the window, he nodded. "The first two rows are all former Union soldiers, too."

She darted a sideways glance at him. "How can you be so sure?"

Eliot turned up one corner of his mouth where only she could see. "Collars. Very distinctive shirt collars."

Parker smirked at him, but didn't question it. If Eliot said it was so, it was so. That was the second thing she had ever learned about him.

The first having been that Eliot Spencer was Wanted "dead or alive" for very good reason.

She had encountered him entirely by accident one very late night in a small town somewhere around Missouri. She was there doing what she always did – playing the part of a young farmhand for hire and lifting wallets and money clips from every man playing cards, too drunk to play cards, and some who were both.

A man with a hat pulled over his face had been reclining on a chair in the far corner of the local watering hole, body slumped, feet on another chair, apparently asleep.

Right up until she reached for his pocket.

In all her rough life, living on streets and in fields and stealing anything and everything she could carry, Parker had never seen a person move that fast – faster than a rattlesnake strike.

The hand that curled around her wrist could have been made of iron, and the grip made her fingers go numb.

"Now." A low voice drawled from behind the hat; he hadn't so much as looked up. "You'll want to be picking pockets somewhere else. Hear me?"

Parker knew she should have been afraid, but she wasn't. "How'd you know I was here?" she asked.

But he did not answer. Instead, she felt a strange sort of tension run through him where he still held her wrist. And two things happened at once.

The first, Parker found herself yanked through the air and slammed to the ground with a weight pinned on top of her.

The second was the roar of gunfire just above her head.

"Stay down," growled the man who had pulled her clear of danger. Parker opened her eyes to see a lean, grizzled face and steely expression before he was gone, charging across the room with nothing in his hands but anger.

But that, as it happened, was more than enough.

By the time Parker had picked herself up from the worn, dusty floor, the room had been deserted save for the eight men in various states of injury or unconsciousness lying amidst several broken tables and chairs. The man behind the bar was blinking at the cataclysm that had overtaken his establishment, and the regular patrons, even the most inebriated, had fled.

And when Parker saw his face clearly, she knew why. She actually took a step back until she ran into the coarse stone fireplace with her shoulder.

"You're…"

There were Wanted posters everywhere. Every town west of the Shenandoah had a picture of that face, those eyes, that expression. It was a poor substitute for the bottled lightning of the reality, but there was no mistaking him.

Eliot Spencer. Wanted dead or alive for murder.

"Don't say it."

It took Parker a moment to realize he had spoken. When she met his gaze again, she thought there was something in it, something she couldn't quite name but had seen in stormclouds about to drop rain.

She dipped her head just once, a tiny nod.

To her surprise, he tipped his hat at her as if she were a lady and not a poorly-grown girl in boys' castoffs. And he strode off into the night like nothing had happened.

Well, after that, Parker couldn't help but follow him.

She trailed him to the edge of town where a beautiful roan mare stood waiting beside a pair of hardy little ponies with heavy saddle-bags. She stayed to the shadows, moving quietly as mist, but he turned with a pistol in his hands pointed right at her all the same.

"Go away."

"Why'd you do it?" she asked.

"Do what?"

"Kill somebody."

And the stormcloud flinched again. "Not important."

"It is to me."

"I ain't telling my life story to some thief girl."

That made Parker smile. "You knew I was a girl."

"Yeah."

"Nobody ever knows I'm a girl." She swept off her cap, letting her rough-cropped blonde hair fly. It was short and wild, and her face, while delicate, had nothing betrayingly feminine to it. That, plus a figure that could not be called womanly even by the most generous description, stuffed into baggy trousers and heavy coats, always fooled everyone. Always.

"Wear gloves next time," he said. "Your fingers give you away."

Parker tried to look at her own hands, but the moonlight was not bright enough for her to tell the difference. She shrugged.

"Can't feel the wallets through gloves."

That won her half a smile. "Guess not. Now, get going. Find some other trouble."

"What kind of trouble are you after?" She took a few steps forward, and while the pistol didn't waver, he didn't look like it troubled him to have her drawing near.

"None for you."

"What if I was curious about your kind of trouble?"

He flinched. "You know who I am."

"Yep."

"So you probably reckon I'm off to live up to my reputation, right? Kill some more people?"

"Maybe."

"Then why in tarnation would you be curious about that?"

"It could be fun."

He scowled darkly, darker than a moonless, starless night in deepest winter. "You think killing is _fun_?"

Parker shrugged and drew closer still. "I don't like killing, but some people are better off dead. You didn't kill the people who shot at you back there. Or me. Whoever they were shooting at. So maybe it's not fun. But if that's what you're doing, maybe it is. The posters didn't say why you did it. "

"Doesn't matter."

She scoffed at him, haughty and dead-certain she was right. "It's the _only_ thing that matters."

Somehow that induced him to speak, and while the moon moved overhead, Parker learned all about a disgraced, honest horse trainer and his daughter, how the father had ended his days in a loop of rope and his daughter was killed in a barn fire trying to save the horses that were her only means of survival. She learned about how a greedy, heartless businessman had made it all happen just to buy the property cheap, had laughed over whiskey at the death and despair that cost him so little compared to the profits he earned. Learned about how he had two more farms waiting on his list and was beginning to move to do the same all over again.

And she learned that Eliot Spencer, former Union captain, was indeed a murderer, but he was also more honest and just than the sheriffs and deputies who did nothing at all about it.

So Parker told her own story of life beginning in New York City on the streets, of discovering before she could reach doorbells that it was safer to be a boy than a girl, and that people were too stupid to notice the difference if she changed her clothes and cut her hair. Of learning the art of thievery from a man who gave her everything but a home. And of finally finding the city too big, too loud, too strange, and wandering into the west to see if it really was wild.

By morning, she was walking beside him as he led the horses, trying to find out what made him speak and what made him go still. It was like opening a safe, knowing the combinations, listening to the tiny changes, finding the one way in.

And Eliot Spencer, who had a bounty on his head big enough to make a man of fortune from any who claimed it, found a person in whose company he could relax for the first time in years.

They wandered together for four months before they tried their hand at train robbing.

Two years and six train robberies later, the name of Eliot Spencer was more famous than ever, his unnamed accomplice had been described a hundred ways and none of them correctly, and sixteen orphanages had enough money to feed and clothe children left with nothing after the war.

They never stole from passengers. They never stole from the government. They might be forced to hurt people, but Eliot never laid a single blow that wasn't necessary, and not a one of them fatal. He couldn't hand bills and coins over to children unless they were clean of blood.

And the banks and land companies they did steal from hated them, cursed them, chased them, but had yet to find them.

Which was why this large shipment of money, capital for land purchases to pad the wealthy companies back east, had more guards than any shipment before, guards in uniforms with guns and guards hired to look like normal people just riding across the prairie.

Like the man sitting nearby reading his paper, whose shoes said hired gun. Like the one with the terrible beard whose eyes had been trained to look for thieves in a crowded street. Like the company of soldiers playing cards in the first rows of the train car.

But people were just another safe to crack, and what Parker couldn't pry into daylight, Eliot could see right through.

Parker fought a giggle. In two years, they hadn't ever been surrounded by so many adversaries, hadn't ever spent hours riding close enough to spit on those who would have happily shot the pair of them and dragged them in for a reward.

And yet no one recognized Eliot now. And no one ever recognized her.

Especially when she was dressed like a boy on a Sunday and Eliot, clean-shaven, wore spectacles and an expensive suit that was meticulously clean and fitted.

Eliot had taught Parker how to vanish into shadows, how to move without being seen, how to spot that which was invisible. In return, Parker had taught Eliot how to walk out in broad daylight, look a dozen lawmen in the eye, and have them never see past their own blindness. This, coupled with taking a bench in the most public of the train cars rather than reserving a berth in the Pullman, proved their innocence to every person on guard for a suspicious, bearded murderer and his ghost-like partner.

"Do you think there will be any more bridges today?" Parker asked. Bridges meant trouble, hidden guards, something they would have to cross to continue forward.

"Probably not," Eliot replied, his voice even with that slightly annoyed tone that kept everyone from bothering too much about the respectable man with the excitable youth at his side. "Seems pretty flat out here."

"There could always be a river. Or a canyon."

"And if there is, you'll see it when we get there." Eliot's answer was clear: nothing's changed. If there are problems, we can deal with them. He gave one lightning-quick glance about the car, then drew out a modest pocket-watch. "Come on. Let's find someone to ask when the next water stop will be."

He rose from the bench, not looking forward at all, in spite of the fact that the payload lay ahead of them, not behind them. But the two rows of soldiers would never let the pair of them pass into the guarded cars, and to try would provoke suspicion. Parker followed him, slumping her shoulders and kicking her feet to add to her feigned youth and hide a bit of her height. Together, they navigated the narrow aisle between seats, taking in their impressions of the people around them and leaving little behind of themselves.

They retreated two more cars until Eliot could legitimately ask a porter for an estimate as to how soon they would reach the next water stop. While the train took on water and fuel, passengers would be let off for a short amount of time to stretch their legs and take care of other business. It was when trains tended to be in the most danger from robberies while they were motionless, and thus the guards would be very alert.

But, if all went well, Eliot and Parker would be well done with their work by then.

The porter confirmed to Eliot that they were still more than an hour from the next stop, and invited him and his son – why they always guessed son and not brother or nephew or assistant Parker would never know, but she grinned in delight whenever someone did, because it made Eliot scowl so – to wait in the dining car which was largely empty after the midday meal and not yet near to supper. And Eliot said something noncommittal and led Parker backwards and the porter went back to his duties, forgetting them in a moment.

And between the dining car and the set of sleeping cars for those who paid a great deal more for tickets, Eliot and Parker shared a grin.

Without a word between them, Eliot braced one shoulder against the door of the rocking train car. He cupped his hands and held them out. Parker pressed one boot into his hands, rocking with the train and the rhythm of her breath.

In a single smooth movement, Eliot hoisted her onto the roof of the car.

Once up there, Parker anchored herself by locking her feet around the edge of the domed, windowed Clerestory roof that ran the length of the train car. She stretched out on her stomach and held out her hands for Eliot who stood below. He looked forward and backwards through the small windows to make sure no one was paying attention and then leaped for her hands. Planting one foot on a railing and pulling against her strong grip, he joined her on the roof almost as silently as she had ascended it.

Only once had they ever been caught in this part of the process, the one time Eliot went up first to pull Parker after him. But for all his strength and speed, she was lighter and made not a sound that could be heard even directly below her in a train car. Eliot was slightly less nimble, and a porter had come to see what could be causing the odd scraping noise.

That was the day that Eliot swore he would never leave Parker vulnerable again. She had come up with a story that satisfied the porter, and a dollar satisfied him even more, but for those frozen heartbeats with the wind whipping over his back, Eliot's only thought had been that he would kill the porter, every porter on the train if necessary, before he'd let harm come to her. From that day forward, she went up to the roof first, and he covered their retreat.

The pair half-ran, half scurried along the roof of the train, focused on keeping low and towards the center of the Clerestory roof of the car. Jumping from car to car was more difficult given that they were jumping forwards in the same direction the train was moving, and landing silently after such a leap was nearly impossible, so they had to rely upon speed.

But Parker was as fleet as a deer even on the exposed roof of the fastest train, and Eliot was strong enough to throw himself surprisingly far, and they both watched each other's every step. If one missed the placement of a single foot, they were there to catch one another.

They passed their own car, ran atop the express car that held their goal, and made one more leap to the next baggage car just to be safe. Then Eliot dropped to the platform outside the far door – narrower here, but with railings and a few handholds for the train porters to use – donned a mask, and entered the car. Parker waited, perched on the roof, until he emerged at the other end having secured the door behind him. The one porter manning that baggage car would either be unconscious but largely unharmed, or tied up and completely unharmed but paid well for his silence.

Thus assured of no trouble from one end, Eliot gave Parker a single nod and strode into the express car.

Parker used his entrance to cover her leap back to that car and ran along the top of it, dropping herself down between the car where they had sat for so many hours and the one they intended to rob. By the time she pushed open the door and entered the car, every guard was turned to Eliot, guns out, barking orders. It was the work of a moment for Parker to slip inside and lock her door behind her – thus preventing any reinforcements from the soldiers playing cards only yards away. And then Parker ducked into the most sheltered spot she could find and waited.

Eliot fought like a lion or a bear, she thought, watching him brawl with a skill she had only seen in some foreigners putting on shows across the west. He did not merely punch and kick – he used his whole body as a weapon, striking with elbows and knees, driving guards into one another or their hastily-abandoned chairs and tables. No matter how many men drew pistols and charged him, he contrived to put them in each other's way, disabling them more quickly than they could form up against him.

Until one particularly astute guard turned to summon help from the next car and spotted Parker.

The bullet struck altogether too close to Parker's face for comfort, and she threw herself away from the corner where she was pinned. She tumbled across the rattling floor and stretched her hand for any sort of weapon, fingers closing on a cane, or perhaps a club.

"Get out of the way!" Parker heard Eliot yelling, and it took her two heartbeats to realize he was yelling at her and not the guards between them. But Parker was positioned between the door to help and a guard determined to reach it, and so she had become a threat and target.

But if she moved, there would be more soldiers, more guns. And she and Eliot would surely die.

So Parker, unable to back down, charged forward.

She hit the guard's arm with her club as hard as she could, and he dropped his pistol with a yelp. But he brought his other arm up and swung for her face.

Parker ducked and took only a partial blow to her head. But she swung her club again, aiming for his stomach. The strike knocked the guard off-balance and he staggered into the safe in the center of the car.

Parker hit him again until he went down, moaning. Then, confident that Eliot would take care of everything else, pressed her ear to the safe and began to spin the dial.

Some eternity of tiny clicks and tumbler sounds later, Parker sensed someone near. She opened her eyes to a guard leveling a pistol at her heart.

And then there was a flash of a once-pristine suit and the guard was halfway across the car in a heap that looked a little broken.

Eliot shook his head at her, yanking down his mask. "Fifteen guards, armed, and you're opening a safe with your eyes closed. You really are twenty pounds of crazy in a five pound bag, you know that?"

"Yep!"

She could read the fight in his disheveled state, but more than that she could see his worry in his eyes and the way his fists wouldn't quite relax. He crouched beside her, looking like a mountain cat coiled with tension and aggression.

Parker grinned at him. She did not need to tell him that she knew she had been safe all along, because he was there. She knew it, though. And he knew it, too.

Eliot's eyes narrowed and one of his hands came forward. Parker didn't so much as flinch as he ran rough, callused fingers over her cheek. It hurt where he touched, and she realized the blow she had only half avoided had bruised and split her skin. Eliot wiped at the blood with gentle strokes that belied his anger.

"I'm sorry," was all he said.

Parker glared at him. "Go away."

And Eliot huffed, a bit of a smile returning to his eyes at her refusal to care, at her annoyance with his protectiveness, at her utter disinterest in her injury. He backed away and allowed her to return to concentrating on the safe and all that was within.

Five miles before the train at last began to slow for the water stop, Eliot and Parker had split the safe's entire contents between them, shoved into pockets and rolled up sacks secreted in Parker's clothing to further disguise her shape. They threw their sacks from the train into thick grasses and bushes where they would not be obvious to any passengers looking out the windows. Then they simply waited for the train to come to a halt.

Amidst the sudden crowd of passengers bursting from every car in the train, sometimes before it had quite stopped, they disappeared, wandering into the greenery around the track and looking no different from the dozens of others glad for the respite from the train's constant movement. And by the time the porters or guards checked the express car and found their work, Eliot and Parker had disappeared into the shrubs, following a well-used path to where there was a tiny shelter for those who took turns monitoring the water and fuel needed by the trains who frequented these tracks.

It was an isolated, thankless job, mostly given to those who eschewed people for one reason or another. These were the sorts of folk who never seemed to mind trading the keeping of a few horses for a young pair of brothers out exploring the territory when money and friendly smiles were exchanged. More dollars changed hands and promises were made – for should anyone turn suspicion on the quiet man seeking nothing but solitude, Eliot and Parker would be there to protect him – and then Parker and Eliot were away to retrieve the fortune they had dropped in the middle of the wilderness.

And no one could quite say who had done the robbery, nor when, nor how they escaped or where they went. The papers would report it, sensationalizing the details until the escapade sounded utterly fantastical. The investors and rich men of the east would throw their telegrams down in a huff, furious at so much money lost and wasted.

And Eliot and Parker laughed long after the sun had set.

Because whatever else it was, being thieves and train robbers, making themselves Wanted dead or alive ten times over, becoming legends blown all out of proportion – whatever else it was, it was definitely _fun_.


	5. Treasure of Gold

This one was supposed to have kind of an "Indiana Jones" vibe and kinda…went sideways. I blame Nate.

Also, in the interest of full disclosure, I've actually been to Bodrum. And we did call it 'boredom.' And then the castle gave my mom some kind of horrible 2-day illness which led to pneumonia. That said, it's actually a lovely place. Just not very exciting.

Enjoy!

* * *

#5: Treasure of Gold

* * *

"Of all the absolutely _ridiculous_ expeditions you've ever undertaken, Nathan Ford, I believe this is the _worst_!"

Nate blinked at Sophie far too casually. "What makes you say that?"

Sophie was dearly tempted to throw something at him. Preferably something large and heavy that would leave a dent in that overly-active brain. "Because it doesn't exist!"

"The expedition?"

Now he was mocking her, his face barely betraying the grin, but she could read it. Sophie could always read him.

"When you asked me to help you find a lost Donatello sculpture, yes, I was skeptical. But we found it. Tracking down Llywelyn's coronet? Ridiculous, but possible. Fabergé eggs missing for a little over a decade? A perfect chase. But what do these things have in common?"

Nate tipped his head. "We found them?"

"They _exist_ , you idiot!" Sophie only barely kept from stamping her foot. "Whereas the Apple of Discord _does not_!"

"Of course it does."

Sophie folded her arms. "The golden Apple of Discord, inscribed with _Kallistēi_ , 'to the fairest,' tossed amongst the gods celebrating a wedding and fought over by Hera, Aphrodite, and Athena? The apple whose ownership ultimately caused the Trojan War when Paris chose Aphrodite and was given Helen as a prize? _That_ Apple of Discord?"

"That's the one."

"Nate. It _does not exist_."

"That's where you're wrong." And Nate, in the infuriating manner that meant he was cackling inside like a child, swept out of the records room in a flurry of dust.

Someday, Sophie thought, someday she would not trot after him like some kind of puppy or well-trained pony. Someday she would leave him to his dramatic exits and mysterious clues and leaps in logic and beautifully broken heart, and would go her own way. Someday she would abandon him hip-deep in a pit of snakes, or maybe dangling over a spike-filled ground trap, and let him figure his own way out.

But, apparently, that was not to be today.

Sophie let out an aggrieved sigh and followed the idiot.

She found him leaning against the sun-warmed bricks just outside the library's main door, peering out over the bustling street. There was something in his slouch that told her he was thinking rapidly, faster than any automobile could go, but it was his shifting foot that told her he hadn't been entirely confident she would follow this time.

That insecurity mollified her a bit.

"Just tell me why exactly you have any reason to believe that the Apple exists," she said, stepping close to him. "It hasn't been seen since before the _Iliad_ was composed. Troy hasn't even been proved to exist. What makes you think the Apple ever did?"

"Forget about all that stuff about the gods and goddesses." Nate said. "Troy is real, and we'll find it someday. But before all that, think about golden apples in general. They show up in more myths than just the judgement of Paris. Atalanta was foiled by one, or three, depending on which version you believe, and Heracles was asked to retrieve some as well."

"So?"

"So." Nate's keen eyes went sharp. "Why wouldn't somebody make one?"

Sophie shook her head. "I don't know what you mean."

"People are the same no matter how far back in time we go. If you were a tourist in Paris today for the very first time, what do you think you would want to see?"

"The Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe, I suppose." Sophie shrugged, deliberately leaving out the eyesore that the Eiffel Tower had become with its advertising and radio wires. She had, in fact, seen all those things as a tourist, but not on her first trip to the famed city. She had her pride, after all.

"Right. And you would find people willing to sell you little paintings of them, or clay versions, or even perfect miniature recreations."

Sophie frowned. "You're suggesting some sort of ancient street vendor made golden apples to sell to gullible tourists?"

"I think it's almost inevitable that there have been many golden apples, all claimed to be the real thing, made just to ensure that the maker could earn the prestige and fortune of being the owner of the Apple of Discord. It would have been centuries after the Fall of Troy, enough time for the event to have become legend."

"Fine. But what's the use in hunting down a knock-off golden apple that may or may not even exist?"

Nate smiled. "First of all, if we do find it, and it does have the inscription, then it may well prove that Troy truly exists."

"No, it won't. Not any more than the tales from the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ do."

Nate ignored her perfectly sound logic. "Second, any museum or private collector would pay a fortune themselves for the legendary Apple of Discord, even a 'knock-off' as you put it."

Sophie couldn't argue that point, so she didn't bother.

"You've rarely hared off after something purely for the sake of profit," Sophie said instead.

"Well, but this one will be easy." Nate pushed off the wall. "I even know where to look. We just have to go dig it up and sell it."

"And then what? Why do you need to do this _now_?"

Nate was still smiling, but Sophie could read the slight shade in his eyes. The doubt, the worry. "Let's just say...something's come up."

"Something that's worth tracking down an item that doesn't exist?"

"Something worth tracking down every single ancient artifact that ever existed."

Sophie was surprised. Very surprised. She tried to hide it behind an arch expression.

"And you're going, no matter what I say?"

"If I have to."

Well, that was admission enough. She never had been able – or willing – to resist that self-effacing charm and slightly manic determination. And she had certainly followed him on worse ventures.

"Then where are we headed?"

Nate's face shifted only slightly, but Sophie saw the light that bloomed in his eyes, the gratitude, the excitement, the affection. He spoke so little to her sometimes, but there was hardly a need when his eyes spoke so well on his behalf.

"Bodrum."

"Where?"

Nate started down the library steps. "Bodrum. Come on."

Sophie spent the entire journey aboard the ship from Crete to the port of Bodrum reading every book Nate thrust into her hands, from excerpts from Herodotus who had been born there and Pliny who had wandered everywhere in the known world, it seemed, to the published works by Charles Thomas Newton who had excavated most of the famed Mausoleum of Halicarnassus, Bodrum's ancient name. In the years since Newton's death, the remains of the Mausoleum had been preserved by the British Museum who had laid claim to the ruins; Newton had purchased the land upon which they sat and he had willed it to the museum for preservation.

But as their ship finally approached what appeared to be a modest fishing village, Sophie sighed.

"Bodrum? More like _boredom_."

The sight from the sea was not particularly spectacular, not like other places they had journeyed together. The Bodrum Castle sitting on its peninsula was the only thing of interest amidst the sloping shore that rose to a high, rocky ridge in every direction, but even it was run down and clearly abandoned. And in the heat of high summer, any greenery that might have made the surrounding hills embracing the inlet like arms soft and lush was dull at best – for the most part, the hills were dotted with scrubby, brownish things and stubby grasses.

But Nate practically leaped off the ship, his traveling bag bouncing as he charged down the pier. Sophie came behind him, well-used to that sort of behavior by now. She muttered apologies to offended Turks along the way.

"Someday," she said as she caught up to where Nate was trying to push through a crowd of fishermen, "you're going to cause trouble before I catch up to you, and then what will you do?"

He smirked. "Wave my hands and say 'I'm an idiot American and I don't speak your language, please forgive me,' and hope for the best?"

Sophie sighed. For all Nate's skills, languages were his Achilles heel, as it were. The man could find a needle in a field of haystacks, but he could not even read the simplest Latin phrase on his Doctorate award. How he could have gotten himself through that much schooling and never learned a single word of any language but English from anyone, she had no idea.

But she suspected he had fooled everyone as he usually did.

Everyone but herself, of course.

"Are we going to stop at a hotel, or do we continue on tonight?" she asked, hoping for the former and almost certain of the latter. When Nathan Ford had caught a scent, he tracked it unceasingly, even at the expense of things normal people considered such as food and sleep.

"A bit of both," he said, meeting her eyes. "If...ah! There he is!" He waved.

A man with the same swarthy complexion and dressed as the other Turks bustling around them waved back. Nate pushed through the crowd to him, Sophie at his side.

"Thank you for meeting us on such short notice," Nate said.

"It is my pleasure." The man gave a nod to Sophie. "I have what you requested."

Nate grinned. "Sophie, meet the keeper of Bodrun Castle, and the only person with a key to its gate."

She tried not to sigh again. "So we are spending the night in that castle?" She gestured across the harbor.

"Exactly."

Sophie wondered why she was even surprised anymore.

It was the work of no time at all for them to make their way along the waterfront to the chained gates that kept the castle apart from the rest of the small city. Nate's ally let them in, then locked the gates once more behind them and passed the key to Nate through the bars.

"I shall return in the morning," he said.

"Hey." Nate pulled a handful of money from a pocket and held it between the bars. "Bring breakfast, please."

"As you wish."

"Thank you," Sophie added pointedly. But Nate was already gone, wandering into the abandoned castle. She rolled her eyes and followed.

The castle itself was massive, its outer walls lined with towers and rooms and a maze of defensive positions. Within the walls were several other buildings, obviously abandoned and unused for years. Trees and bushes had grown wild, and there were many birds safe from the humans and other hunters outside. It was quiet and surprisingly lovely.

Nate pulled out one of his books and walked a good portion of the castle, marking off the chapel, now a mosque, the hamam, and the fallen towers destroyed in the Great War. He also noted where marble had been incorporated into the building, taken from the Mausoleum above, along with some reliefs, statues, and even bits of iron.

The castle had also been used as a garrison and a prison, and the leavings of both were evident too, spoiling the place rather thoroughly in Sophie's opinion.

Before sunset , Nate pulled out his lantern in one of the few small interior rooms Sophie could stand because it did not smell like urine.

"So, here's what I'm thinking. Mausolus married his sister and they ruled Halicarnassus together before his death. That's when she built his tomb, which became the Mausoleum, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world."

"Yes. And?"

"The two of them were very invested in art, and in legend. They filled Halicarnassus with statues and temples, and from what's here, it's clear they had visual representations of practically every significant story from mythology."

Sophie nodded. "Yes. And?" she said again.

Nate blew out a breath. "What collection would be complete without a golden apple? Especially between such a devoted husband and wife."

"Brother-and-sister husband and wife," Sophie clarified.

"Whatever." Nate turned back to his pages. "The Mausoleum was to be Artemisia's eternal statement of love for Mausolus, like the Taj Mahal for Shah Jahan. And it stood largely unbothered for centuries. It wasn't even looted until Catholic knights started digging around to steal stones to build this castle."

"But it _was_ looted," Sophie said. "There's no way of knowing what was taken, or where it ended up."

"Listen." Nate was frowning, and he looked up at her. "Artemisia was a tough woman. She commanded a fleet of her own and led a defeat of Rhodes. And it's said that she mixed the ashes of her late husband into her daily drink to ensure he would stay close to her."

"That is particularly disturbing, thank you."

"I found a legend about their father, Hecatomnus," he continued, ignoring her, "and about how he chose to marry his daughters to his sons. He had three sons, but only two daughters, so he gave his daughters the choice of which of their brothers to marry. Artemisia was beautiful, clever, loyal, and strong. In order for Mausolus to win her from Idrieus and Pixodarus, he would have needed an edge."

"So you think he reenacted Paris's choice, offering her a golden apple and asking her to return it to him and be his wife."

"The similarities are pretty strong. Three brothers vying for one sister's affection, like three goddesses tempting a fair man with their beauty."

"I thought you said Hecatomnus had two daughters."

"Yes. Ada. She was canny, but not loyal. She allied herself with Alexander in order to save her life and her city, betraying her husband's memory after Idrieus died. No, Artemisia was the one they wanted."

Sophie thought perhaps this time Nate had gone too far. Perhaps this time his wild speculation and his over-certainty in his ability to read the motivations and intentions of people centuries dead had led them to nowhere. This was more than a leap of faith – this was pure fancy.

But she was here for the night, and he was clearly invested in seeing this through to the end.

"So what does that have to do with this castle?"

"If we assume that Artemisia did have a golden apple and did give it to Mausolus one way or another, then we can assume she buried it with him, or kept it with her as a secret. But I think she would have given it back to him in some way, the promise of her choice to be loyal to him beyond death."

"Then it could easily have been looted."

"Yes, but...Artemisia was smart. I think she would have hidden it somewhere so that, no matter what desecration came to their tomb, their promise would remain."

"You are impossible."

"Probably." And Nate gave her an honest smile. "But if I'm wrong, then we spend the evening together in a private castle. And if I'm right, we emerge in the morning with a priceless treasure."

"You're doing something else," Sophie said, leaning on the table and peering into his eyes. "This is all true, more or less, but there's something you're not telling me. Something important."

Nate's whole expression warmed. "There's no one on earth like you, Sophie."

"Yes, I'm aware. What are you up to?"

Nate laughed. "Help me find the apple and I'll tell you."

Sophie gave in. Again. As she always seemed to around this ridiculous, intriguing man.

"Where do we start?"

"Well, this castle stands on the same place as the original palace Mausolus and Artemisia lived in. The people who built the castle in the Middle Ages weren't too careful about exploring the site – they just built on top of it. After the walls, the next thing they did was the chapel."

Sophie frowned. "Are you thinking there's something of the original palace left?"

"Maybe. Artemisia proved to be skilled and smart, and she knew how to build something grand enough to be a wonder. Why wouldn't she employ the same skill in her own home? And there's something else."

Nate flipped a few pages in his book.

"Even then, Artemisia would have known that their spectacular tomb would be robbed someday. Or destroyed when another empire came to claim their land. But palaces, now, they last forever. They may be rebuilt, but they are always in use. Because whoever claims a new territory needs the symbolic power of that ruling seat to affirm their control. The Mausoleum was destined for desecration and destruction, but her palace, in one form or another, would be safe for eternity."

"You really are the most brilliant man I've ever known, even if your wild leaps would carry you to the moon if you aimed them correctly."

Nate smiled.

"And I still think you're making this up as you go."

He smiled even more deeply.

Sophie pulled back her hair and checked her boots to be sure they were tightly laced. "All right. Let's go investigate your entirely impossible theory, if only so we can finish whatever you really intend to do before neither of us gets any rest tonight."

They started with the deep cisterns.

"They were dug by a family who was so highly regarded that they became legendary," Nate said, studying the first one. "If there was ever anything beneath the original palace, we may find it in one of these."

Sophie took one look at the black-green water, its darkness having nothing to do with the soon-to-be setting sun, and shook her head.

"I am _not_ going in there."

"That's all right. I'll go."

Nate stripped to the waist and removed his boots and socks. Before Sophie could decide if she should actually prevent him, Nate jumped into the first cistern.

"Damn!" he came up shouting, surging out of what looked like an entire forest of slimy, moldy growth.

"Cold?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

" _Very_." Nate paddled in circles, adjusting to the temperature. Then he put his hands on the stone wall, feeling the rocks. "Some light, please?"

"Is there any reasonable purpose to doing this so close to sunset and _not_ tomorrow morning when you would actually have sunlight?" Sophie asked, holding the lantern over the cistern.

"Yes."

"Are you going to tell me what it is?"

"Nope."

For several minutes, Nate investigated the walls that were slick with the same slime that now coated his skin. He also dove deep, feeling around the bottom. Given the look on his face and the soft, black mush that came up in his hands, Sophie decided she didn't want anything to do with whatever was down there. Not for all the lost treasures of the world.

And it served Nate right for being so stubborn.

Of course, then Sophie was obliged to help him haul himself out of the cistern, which was made far more difficult with his slick grip. And once he was again on solid ground, just as the last edge of the sun touched the horizon, she had to place herself upwind of him – the rotting vegetation and fetid water scent was potent.

"How many cisterns are we going to swim in tonight?" she asked pointedly.

"The castle has fourteen, but only two more are in strategically likely places to look. If we don't find anything tonight, I can always dive in the other eleven tomorrow."

Sophie grimaced all through repeating the same process twice more.

By the time Nate climbed out of the third 'strategically significant' cistern, Sophie was almost used to the smell, but no less sympathetic. Nate was brilliant, but he had little prudence when the mood took him, charging into situations and theories as if there was no tomorrow, no possibility of failure, and no ill consequences.

As now, when she realized he had a streak of red running down one arm.

"You're hurt!"

Nate looked at a gash on his shoulder and shrugged. "It's not too bad."

Sophie was thoroughly tempted to leave him then and there. She'd already taken the gate key from his bag while he was communing with slime molds, and it would be amusing to leave him here alone for the night, dripping and miserable, locked in a castle of his own folly.

Instead, she lifted the lantern and his dry clothing. "Come on, then."

Back in the little room where they had put their supplies, Sophie offered him a towel from her own luggage and pulled out a few of her emergency supplies. Besides bandages, she had come prepared with at least a little food – even at her best, she couldn't talk her way out of hunger.

Sophie set two pomegranates on the table and waited for Nate to finish drying off and changing.

He smiled when he saw her offering.

"I've got something, too." And produced from somewhere – she didn't know where – an entire basket of fruits and breads and dates and sweets.

"I should have known you wouldn't want to go without supper," she teased to cover her surprise.

"You should have known," Nate returned, "that I would never let you go hungry."

They ate quietly, sharing silent glances and tiny touches, and Sophie wondered as she always did what he was really thinking. Nate was a whirlwind of energy, darting about the world, chasing stories and artifacts and mysteries, and nothing and no one seemed to hold him beyond the hunt and the adventure. And yet, in these quiet, golden hours by lamplight, he seemed at peace in a way she never saw otherwise. They had crossed paths several times over the years before Nate asked Sophie to join him on a permanent basis, and there had been heat in those quick moments when Sophie beat him to a prize and Nate tried to take it away.

But for the last few years, Nate had flown about the world with her at her side and had said nothing in particular.

And now, he caressed her hand as he passed her a fig, and his eyes were deep and warm, and his smile was a little broken, and Sophie still did not know what he meant by any of it, or what he wanted.

What she wanted, what she had always wanted, should have been obvious from the start.

"Well." Nate, of course, broke the moment and set the half-full basket to one side. "There's one other place I would like to look tonight."

But he gave her a look she didn't dare misinterpret, and scooped a few pomegranate seeds from her before he rose.

Sophie tipped her head. "Be careful, Nate. Those have power in this part of the world."

"Six pomegranate seeds bound Persephone to Hades for half the year," Nate said. He looked into his hand. "So this should do." And before Sophie could guess at how many he held, he ate them all.

The man was a complete mystery, and Sophie still couldn't decide if she adored him or wanted to strangle him. Maybe both, in turns and all at once.

The chapel-turned-mosque had high, vaulted ceilings, but was bare of anything else. Nate's lantern illuminated the same large stones they had seen on their first tour through it earlier in the evening.

Nate moved unerringly for a far corner, the one that had clearly been repaired infrequently if ever compared to the rest of the building. While Sophie held the lantern and handed him tools, Nate carefully pried up a flagstone from the ground, then another.

"You're thinking there could be catacombs?" she asked as he started to pull at a particularly large one.

"It's possible. The knights wouldn't have wanted to bury their own people out with the heathens in the hills or the city cemeteries. Aha!" And he shoved the stone aside, revealing a void below.

Nate looked up at Sophie, his expression oddly serious. "Will you follow me?"

Sophie shook her head at him and handed him the lantern.

But before he could become too crestfallen, she grinned. "I'll go first." And she dropped down into the darkness.

Nate came right behind her, chuckling to himself. "I shouldn't be surprised by now."

"No, you shouldn't be." Sophie took the light back from him and set off into the catacombs.

They were small, but that was to be expected given the difficulty of building on such a rocky promontory. Just a single long corridor lined with ossuaries. There were niches in the walls, too, and the light revealed dark, rag-covered bones.

Sophie didn't bother with the tombs themselves, moving to the far end of the corridor.

"Nate." She ran her fingers along the wall. "There _is_ something here."

Nate nodded. He peered at the wall closely. "What language is that?"

Sophie scoffed at him. "As if you could read it anyway." She brushed away dust and cobwebs. "It is basically a prayer, calling upon God to make this sanctuary holy and to keep the ghosts of the past bound in their burial chamber." She blinked. "There is also a plea not to disturb what lies beyond. It's oddly worded, but if I had to guess, I'd say the person who put up this wall deliberately locked away something of significant value."

Nate's eyes lit up. "Well, let's unlock it, then!"

Nate had brought the heaviest of his tools down into the catacombs, and he hefted his mallet. With a few quick swings, he was through the wall.

"Too much blasting, too many wars," he said. "All the stone is weak."

Sophie nodded. She took the lantern back and squeezed through the opening he had made first.

And stopped in utter surprise.

"Nate…"

The room was lined with white marble, dusty after so many centuries lost underground, but largely undamaged. To one side there was a beautiful bas-relief showing a man and a woman in an intimate embrace surrounded by images of many gods and goddesses in similar states.

Nate slipped past Sophie and went to the opposite side of the chamber.

Sophie stared at the scene, a lump in her throat. The pair, for they could only be Mausolus and Artemisia, had been sculpted with great skill, and they looked even now as though there was nothing in their world but one another. The love which had lasted beyond death was palpable in their expressions.

"Sophie."

She turned to find Nate approaching her with something in his hands.

"You found it?"

He nodded. But when he reached her, he took the lantern from her and set it on the ground. Then he dropped to one knee.

"I told you I needed it. I needed the Apple of Discord because...because it's the ultimate symbol of...of desire. Three goddesses wanted it badly enough to offer one man the world. And that single object launched a decade-long war, all for the sake of one woman."

"You're completely ignoring economic and political motivations, you know." But her voice trembled and she didn't know why.

"I didn't...I didn't really know if we'd find one, but I hoped we would. Because...because…"

Nate swallowed. And held out the apple.

"Because you are the fairest, Sophie. And I would...I would tear down Troy myself to find you. I would...I would give you anything you asked of me. I...I love you. And I will always love you. Long past when people like us are digging up _our_ tombs."

"I can't tell if that's romantic or morbid," Sophie whispered.

"Tonight...it's our anniversary. Five years to the day since we teamed up. That's why it had to be now, tonight."

Sophie's breath caught in her throat.

"I...I ate twelve pomegranate seeds, Sophie. For you. Please...take this apple. Please choose me."

Tears slipped down her cheeks. "Choose you to what?"

"To be beside you, forever. Will you, Sophie Lara Devereaux, marry me?"

Sophie felt herself break into a funny sob. She held out her hands and took the apple, crying and laughing. "Of course I will."

Nate surged up and took her into his arms.

And Sophie wondered if this place was one of those which was secretly holy to those who knew what to look for, for those who truly knew love. Wondered if Bodrum, for all its fishing-village simplicity, wasn't perhaps one of the finest testaments to unending devotion on the planet. The Mausoleum was just the most obvious evidence, but this chamber, untouched by the centuries of rebuilders and invaders and wars and earthquakes and the turn of time, stood as proof that nothing in the world can quite stamp out eternal love.

But right now, only one love mattered, and Sophie gave herself to it completely.

There would be time enough later to tease Nate about proposing marriage in the middle of the find of a lifetime.


	6. Endings

So! This is the last of the AU oneshots – for now. Might I come back someday and do more? Who knows! But they've been fun in the meantime.

Now I will be taking 2 weeks off while I attend/work at/run my home convention, CONvergence. If you happen to be there, come to the Bridge and ask for me. I'm usually there. Otherwise, I'll have a Leverage 3-shot for you when I return in July.

Thanks, everyone, for being part of the journey!

Enjoy!

* * *

#6: Endings

* * *

Eliot's phone rang an hour before the news even hit the internet. He was in the brewpub kitchen, taking stock of supplies. He answered it one-handed, without looking.

"Yeah?"

"Spencer. Vance. It's gone Black."

Eliot froze. He pulled the phone from his cheek so he could check the caller information, just to be sure. Swore.

"When? Where?"

"Everywhere. Reports coming in from airports all over the country."

Eliot growled. "That means there was an initial mass dispersion, not just one or two original infected."

"We know."

Eliot swore again.

"Spencer. They wanted me to call you in."

Something in his chest snapped with cold fury. "I ain't coming."

"I know. That crew of yours, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then get lost. Fast. This thing...it's worse than any projection we had. Take them and go."

He still had to ask, "What about – ?"

Vance's words were cold. "There's nothing you can do, nothing _anyone_ can do. They're already dead. Save the ones you can."

"I will." Eliot swallowed. "Vance. What about your family?"

"Already called them. They're on the move."

Eliot wanted to say something more, but he couldn't decide if it was better for Vance to run with his family and abandon his country, or abandon his family to save his country. A few years ago, Eliot would have been caught in a similar position himself.

But not now.

"I'll keep this phone. If it goes clear, let me know. Or…"

"I won't call you in unless there's no other choice," Vance said. "Make sure you're alive in a week."

"You, too."

Eliot thumbed the phone off. He gave himself just one moment of stillness, of utter quiet in his mind, his heart, his body. Just one.

Then he burst into motion.

"Hardison! Parker!" He charged out of the kitchen into a nearly full restaurant. He spared them not a glance. There was nothing he could do for them. There was nothing he could do for countless innocent people. The millions who did not know they were already dead and just waiting for it to set in.

But he could save these two.

"Hey, man." Hardison met him at the door to the briefing room. "What's got you all worked up? Look like you've seen a ghost."

"Where's Parker?"

"I'm up here." Parker was hanging upside-down from one of the rafters.

Eliot drew in a deep breath. "I need you two to listen to me and I need you to do it now."

Eliot watched them grow still and serious. He grumbled at them regularly, barked opinions and insults and orders, and sometimes even shouted. But they could count only a handful of times Eliot had gone quiet like this, quiet and intent. And every time, it had meant their lives.

"I don't care if you believe me or not. I don't care if you think I'm nuts. You're going to do what I tell you right now, or I'll kill you where you stand."

"Eliot?" Hardison asked, taking a nervous step back.

"Do you understand me?" Eliot stared at the hacker, unflinching. He was not exaggerating and he needed them both to know it.

"We understand." Parker went quiet, too, and dropped from the ceiling, unhooking her harness and taking Hardison's hand. "We're with you."

Eliot nodded. Then he turned and locked the door behind him. He didn't care if customers were curious as to why their orders were late, or if the staff came looking for him.

 _They're already dead. Save the ones you can._

"You have exactly two minutes to pack up anything you genuinely treasure. If you would mourn its loss or destruction, grab it now. But keep it small. _Very_ small." Then he hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "And do not go out there. No matter who knocks on the door. You stay where I can see you."

Hardison opened his mouth to argue, but Parker shook her head. She met Eliot's eyes with a gaze of mixed steel and trust and the edges of something hard and decisive and strong.

"What's going on?"

"After. Pack now. Two minutes."

Parker and Hardison scattered. Parker ran to one of the filing cabinets and drew from it a suitcase. She bolted through the main room, opening drawers and secret hiding places and stuffing handfuls into the bag. Hardison, meanwhile, went straight to his work area and threw two laptops in a backpack, then piling in drives and cords and other items Eliot didn't bother to track. Hardison, to Eliot's surprise, was even faster than Parker, and before the two minutes were up, he stood with a heavy backpack and one rolling box that only just barely closed. Parker was right behind him with her suitcase and a lumpy pile of blankets and pillows lashed together with tape.

"Come on."

Eliot began leading the way out of the brewpub through the back. But he stopped at one intersection where the hall narrowed and drove the sharp point of his elbow into the drywall.

"The hell?" Hardison asked.

Eliot picked a bit of the wall apart and reached in. All he needed was in one knapsack which he pulled on securely. Then he broke open another wall and retrieved a pair of handguns.

Parker's eyes went slightly wide. "Eliot?"

Eliot checked them both, then tucked one into his pocket. The other he held ready as he exited the building and entered the alleyway.

"Get in the van."

Eliot could feel their growing apprehension as he covered them with quick, military movements. Only when they were both inside did he join them, slamming the doors and locking them.

"Parker, you drive. Head west. As fast as you can."

"Uh, are we not worried about traffic cops and speeding?" Hardison asked, his voice a little breathy.

"No. As soon as this breaks, they won't care about us. They'll probably be running, too."

Eliot paused. Then he caught Parker's arm before she settled in the front seat.

"If I tell you, you have to do exactly what I say. No matter what."

Parker nodded sharply. "Okay."

"Are you gonna tell us what the hell is going on?" Hardison asked.

Eliot nodded. "After we're out of the city." Then he pushed past Hardison to take the front passenger seat, gun in his hands. "Unless your little internet friends get wind of it a lot quicker than I hope they will."

Hardison popped open the laptop that always lived in the van and started typing frantically.

With Parker's driving, they were clear of the city and its suburbs in a very distressing thirty-five minutes. She took the clearest freeway and raced west out of Portland, and at Eliot's increasingly dark scowl, sped up on the open roads.

Eliot was just gathering himself to say something when Hardison let out something between a scream and a whimper. It was only Parker's reflexes that kept her from turning them off the road when she jumped in surprise.

"Eliot!" Hardison appeared between the two seats, eyes wide. "Man! This...This ain't...it _ain't_ , right?"

Eliot hated the raw terror in Hardison's voice, but this was the right time for terror, so he didn't attempt to be calming.

"Vance called me. It's real."

"What is?" Parker asked, sharp and annoyed and now a little scared, too. Eliot noted that she hadn't been afraid until this moment. She had never been afraid of Eliot. Now, though, now she was afraid. Because Hardison was afraid.

And because they were running.

"It's called a Code Black," Eliot said. "It means some form of biological contaminant with dangerous implications has been released into the population."

"Biological…! Dangerous…!" Hardison almost swallowed his tongue. "Eliot, this is a real-life _zombie apocalypse_!"

"Apparently."

"Like, in all of those movies? With the groaning and the brains and the eating people?" Parker asked.

"Yes." Eliot kept his eyes forward, not able to meet theirs. "It hit the airports already. By now, millions may have been exposed. Depending how fast this thing spreads, the infection rate of the major cities could be as high as fifty or sixty percent by nightfall."

Hardison was breathing too hard, too fast. But Parker turned until Eliot met her eyes, her expression stony.

"Do you have a plan?"

"Yes."

"Okay. What do we do?"

"First, we had to get clear of the population centers. Next, we need a boat."

"Why a boat?" Hardison managed not to squeak.

"People can walk or run for miles. No matter how high up a mountain or how deep in the forest you hide, someone can follow you. But they can only swim so far. We'll be safest on the open water."

"So we're stealing a boat?" Parker asked.

"No." Eliot shook his head. "I already have a boat. We just need to get to it."

He let out a breath.

"You've seen the movies. You know that there's no place safe enough where they can't reach you. We can't...we can't fight this. We can only run, and wait until it dies down – or until everyone dies."

"Eliot, man." Hardison gulped, then made a visible effort to rein in his panic. "It's cool if you've got a fishing dinghy or something, but this...I mean, if this is real…"

"It's real, Hardison."

"Then...I mean...we're talking about the _end of the world_ here."

"Yeah."

"And we're gonna wait it out on your boat?"

"That's the idea."

"Is it stocked?" Parker asked.

Eliot couldn't let himself relax, but he certainly felt relieved. If she was already planning, already making the mental adjustment, this would go easier. He always knew it would be harder on Hardison.

"Yeah," he said. "It's a liveaboard catamaran. Bought it with that first big payout we got after Dubenich. Once a month, I go down and resupply it, just in case."

"In case of _zombies_?" Hardison wanted to know.

"In case of anything."

Parker nodded. "Where is it docked?"

"Bay City."

"I'll turn onto 6. That's the best way to get there, right?" she asked.

"Yep."

"Eliot...man…" Hardison was shaking his head. "Shouldn't we, you know? Warn people?"

"And tell them _what_?" Eliot knew he was snarling but he didn't care. "Tell them that they're probably going to die in pain and scared to death? Get them to panic and start a stampede, or start killing other people just because they have guns and don't know what to do?"

"But…"

"Hardison." Eliot turned to him, facing him unflinchingly. "I have one job. Protect you two. That's what I'm doing. If you want to launch a nationwide panic on social media, I don't really care. Just don't do it until after we get on my boat."

Hardison rocked back, shocked at the coldness.

"Alec." Parker's own voice was soft, but stern. "We have to trust him."

"But we could save people!"

"We can't." Eliot couldn't let himself feel the words, so he didn't. "We can only save ourselves."

"But what about my Nana? What about Nate and Sophie?"

Eliot closed his eyes. "Fine. Call Nate. Tell him to do exactly what we're doing."

"And my Nana?"

"Hardison…"

"No." Hardison straightened up, sharp and angry. "You _tell_ me we're gonna save my Nana. _Tell me_ , Eliot."

Eliot sighed. "We're too far away. But I can call in a favor."

"Yeah, you better."

Eliot nodded and pulled his phone out again. He scrolled through a series of contacts listed only by acronyms and numbers, settling on 'HR-84.'

"It's me," he said as soon as it connected. "Calling in that marker."

"Not surprised," replied a gruff voice Eliot hadn't heard in the better part of a decade. "You tell Vance to stuff it, too?"

"Not exactly. You gonna tell me to stuff it?"

"Depends on what you're paying."

"I have a boat ready. Wyandotte. Under the name Ben Grimm. Haven't seen it in person for a while, but the guy taking care of it is solid. You tell him you're running an errand for Ben's Nana and he'll give you the keys."

He ignored Hardison's snort at the alias, and the recognition of why he'd chosen it.

"Nice. What do you need?"

"There's an old lady. Delia Hayden. You get her out safely and you bring her to me. You tell her that Alec and Parker sent you. And you treat her _nice_." Eliot growled. "You mess with her, and I will _end_ you."

"What, she your grandma or something?"

"Something." Eliot glanced at Hardison and Parker. "We got a deal?"

"Yeah."

"I'll text you her address and the marina. Go now. Call me with the phone on the boat when you're out."

"Nice doing business with you, Spencer."

Eliot hung up. He looked at where Hardison and Parker were staring at him.

"It's not a promise," he said. "We've got it easy. The whole Pacific is right in our backyard. But they'll have to get through two lakes, Niagara Falls, and all the way up the St Lawrence. Anything can happen between there and the open sea. And that boat ain't as good as mine out here. If they make it to the ocean, they're gonna have to stay close in to land. It's not…"

He stopped.

But Hardison, after searching his face for a moment, put a hand on his shoulder.

"Thanks, Eliot." And he shuddered with it.

Eliot looked at the man who was his best friend and brother and everything else. "You're welcome."

"Do you have boats everywhere?" Parker asked.

"No. Just where they're needed." He shook his head. "But not enough. There won't be nearly enough for everyone. You understand that, right? Both of you?"

Parker glanced to Hardison before they both nodded.

"Okay. Hardison, you call Nate and Sophie. I'm gonna try to call a couple of others."

Within fifteen minutes, Hardison had Nate and Sophie running for the nearest harbor and Eliot had been told off by the last members of his family whose contact information he had. Nate was going to call Maggie, but he didn't even know what country she was in. Hardison called Bonnano in Boston, who refused to leave because he had a city to protect. Other clients, especially those with children, they alternated, calling and warning and giving instructions.

And Eliot felt it like a knife in the gut with every attempt. Because he couldn't save them all. He couldn't even save most of them.

But he would die a thousand times before he'd let harm come to the two beside him.

A trip that usually took more than two hours at rush hour was accomplished in a little more than half the time, so just as news stations were picking up the internet rumors and video evidence and piecing together eyewitness reports and demanding answers from the government, they slammed into Bay City at 90 mph.

Parker followed Eliot's directions to the private marina, darting through traffic with the ease she usually reserved for dodging laser sensors. But the streets were emptying of people as the news spread, except where there were grocery stores or gun shops. Those were drawing a crowd.

Hardison had taken to monitoring the situation from his laptop. He looked up as they avoided another mob outside a corner store that was rapidly emptying of everything.

"Is there anything we don't have on the boat that we'll need?"

"It's fully provisioned," Eliot said. "Food, supplies, water, fuel, medical stuff. Even some tech stuff for you."

"Did you know this was going to happen?" Parker asked.

"This? No. But something like it, someday? Yes." Eliot twisted up half his mouth in a not-nice smile. "Figured it'd be Ebola, actually."

"And not, like, us having to flee the country?"

"Hardison," Eliot answered, "if we were in _that_ kind of trouble, we'd already be gone."

"Good point."

When they got to the marina, there was a small crowd gathered around the gates. Eliot scowled.

"Stay in the van," he said. "No matter what." And he slipped out, leaving his bag behind but taking both guns with him.

He approached the drive-up gate slowly. "Problem here?"

One of the locals turned. "Old Rick ain't lettin' us in. Says we're all _infected_."

Eliot raised an eyebrow. "Are you?"

The local chuckled. "Not yet. And not plannin' to be."

"Then let's not stand around waiting." Eliot pushed through the crowd, every sense alert. It wasn't terribly likely that the contagion had spread to such a small place so far from an airport by now, but it wasn't impossible.

And with his luck, the whole crowd would be halfway to zombies right when Hardison and Parker were vulnerable.

Eliot drew his gun and fired at the padlock on the gates, breaking it. He threw the chains to one side and pushed the gates open. The crowd rushed into the marina like a breaking tide.

Eliot waited until they were gone, then waved the van to come through. But he didn't get back in; instead, he walked ahead of it, leading the way to his berth in a secluded spot at the far end. The air filled with the sounds of motors starting up and arguments about who could cast off first.

Eliot kept his gun out.

He wasn't surprised to see a figure standing on his boat.

Eliot didn't have time to think about regret or anger. There was only a burning, driving need to get Hardison and Parker away from danger. Nothing else mattered, not even fury.

"Rick!" he yelled, waving at the van for Parker and Hardison to stay put.

The figure on his boat held up a shotgun.

"Stay away!"

Eliot moved down the dock, shifting so that the van was out of the line of fire, so that the shotgun, when pointed, would be aimed squarely at him and not at the van or its occupants.

"Rick, that's my boat!" Eliot yelled.

"No! I need it! I ain't gonna die like that!"

Eliot was just as glad he hadn't watched any of the footage currently spreading across the internet as the world started its spiral to an end. He could imagine it, and he expected to see it for himself soon enough; right now, though, it might have been a distraction – one he could not afford.

"Rick, I'm gonna tell you one more time to clear outta there," Eliot said. "And then I'm gonna do what I have to."

He edged a little closer. Close enough to see the staid old man who had run this marina for decades – red-faced, wide-eyed, and shaking.

"You come one more step closer and I'll shoot you dead!"

"No, Rick. It's gonna be the other way around unless you get down _right now_."

The shotgun came up and around, barrels pointed to his chest.

And Eliot lifted his gun and fired.

The shotgun spun away and a spurt of blood showed where Rick's hand had taken a bullet.

Rick fell with a cry.

Eliot bolted the last few yards to his boat, leaping onto the deck and kicking the shotgun out of reach. He levied the gun at Rick's face, now red and pale in turns.

"Get off my boat. Now."

Rick was almost hysterical, clutching his hands to his chest and shaking and crying. And Eliot considered pulling the trigger again. A man like this wasn't going to last long in the world being born from death and terror all around them. A man like this was going to die, maybe horribly, and possibly taking others with him.

But then Eliot looked up to the van, to what he could see of one pale face and one dark face, watching him.

"I ain't gonna kill you," he said, not lowering the gun. "Even if you only got an hour before hell itself comes rising up out of the ground. Take the hour you've got and do something good with it. But get off my boat."

Rick blubbered something unintelligible.

Eliot felt his heart move and he hated it. He did _not_ have time for anyone other than Parker and Hardison.

But it was the end of the world. Maybe he could steal a little time before the end.

"You got one of my old inventory lists, right?"

Rick nodded.

"Take it and take your own boat. Get as much of that stuff as you can. It'll keep you alive. And if you love anybody, tell them to do the same thing. But I can't do it for you. I got my own to worry about."

Rick closed his eyes. "Take me with you."

"I can't."

" _Please_. I don't want to die like that."

"Then pick another way to die." Eliot didn't say it unkindly. "It's your life, until it ain't. Use it how you want."

And Rick looked at him with pleading eyes. "I...I can't…I need... _please_."

Eliot pulled his phone out. Without even glancing at the phone, without breaking eye-contact with the desperate man before him, he called Hardison.

"Don't look."

"Why? What's going on?"

" _Don't look_."

There was a slight scuffle and Parker's voice came over the phone. "Is he sick?"

"No. Just scared. Too scared."

"Oh. Okay." She hung up.

Eliot put the gun into his belt. He held Rick's eyes with a measured stare. "Are you sure you want this? Are you sure you want to die right here and now?"

Rick's face was wet, but he nodded. "Yeah. Before...before. Please. I got nobody. Please."

Eliot nodded too. "Okay. I'm sorry."

In a move quicker than the eye could track, he spun Rick to face away from the van and snapped his neck. He lowered the body to the deck, checking for breathing and heart-beat. Both were stilled. Then, because he couldn't just dump the man overboard, couldn't just leave him that way, he got the body up over his shoulder and walked back up the dock. He passed the van without looking at it and hauled Rick all the way up to the office, where he set him in his chair and covered him with a blanket.

By the time Eliot got back down the dock, Parker and Hardison were hauling things from the van into the boat.

"Thought I told you to stay in the van."

Hardison looked like he had recently been sick, but his hands were steady where he carried his van laptop and a handful of cords. He paused on the dock beside Eliot.

"Thought we'd...you know. Spare you. Since you were...busy."

Eliot waited for the judgement, the censure, the fear. But there was none. Not in Hardison and certainly not in Parker, who was poking into every part of the catamaran she could. Parker's gaze, when it held still, was cool and even sympathetic. Hardison's was...sad.

"You okay, man?" he asked.

Eliot barked a laugh that surprised them both. "Not really. Just killed an old guy whose only mistake was being dumb enough to ask me to do it."

Then Eliot considered Hardison. " _You_ okay?"

"Uh, _hell no_. Zombies? End of the world as we know it? And I don't feel fine? _Hello_?" But Hardison swallowed and managed what might have been a smile in a past life. "But we're alive. And you're gonna keep us that way. And...that's, like, better than ninety percent of people in horror movies. So I'm good."

Eliot didn't know he was going to do it – he flung his arms around Hardison and held him tight. He had no words. He could never have words for this.

But Hardison held him back, bumping Eliot's spine with the edge of the laptop and being altogether too tall to really hug, and nothing else would ever matter.

And then Parker's thin arms were around them both and she huffed what might have been a sob, just once.

Eliot forced himself to break the hug long before he was ready.

"Come on. We need to find a place to meet up with Hardison's Nana and then go get Sophie and Nate. And I don't want to be anywhere near any shoreline when it gets as bad as it's gonna get."

"Can we really fit Nate and Sophie and Hardison's Nana on this boat with us?" Parker asked.

Eliot shrugged. "Maybe."

"What do we do if we can't?" Hardison wanted to know.

"We'll do what we do. Adapt."

"No." Parker managed to find a fold of a smile in her face. "We'll steal a bigger boat, of course."

That made some of the frozen cold in Eliot thaw a little. "Deal."

And before the sun even touched the waves, Eliot was teaching Hardison about the controls and telling Parker not to play with the radio, and the Harlin Leverage IV was heading away into the west.

And Eliot felt okay.

The world was ending, sure.

But _his_ world, and the only people in it, were going to be fine.


End file.
